The YinYang Cycle 1: Play Your Part
by timewaster123456789
Summary: When an accident intensifies the horcrux connection Harry finds himself spending unwanted time with his mortal enemy. As the realities of war, the incompetence of the ministry, and fate nudge Harry down a new path, the legacy of an old man produces unintended fruit. Grey!Harry noslash.
1. Chapter 1 revised

A/n: The Deatheater meeting at the beginning of DH happened in June. Everything follows canon unless otherwise stated. The story will diverge from DH around chapter 6/7.

Chapter 1

Lord Voldemort apparated into the meeting room of Slytherin castle, stumbling slightly as he landed. He allowed himself to stand a moment, his head bowed in exhaustion as he waited for the flood of pain from his burnt leg to abate. He quickly straightened, adjusted his stance so that he could avoid putting too much weight on his leg without it being noticeable, and activated the Dark Mark. Some fifty death eaters arrived and he began to speak, long years of practice keeping the weariness out of his voice and manner.

"My loyal followers. We have been making great strides both here and abroad. The inferior and the unworthy will soon bow before our might," Cheers greeted the cliched drivel. He wondered absently how absurd a speech he could make before the cowards and sycophants would falter in their adoration. Great Salazar he was tired. "To that end your reports," He continued when the cheers died down. Lucius stepped forward, bowed and started to speak.

"My Lord, our less conspicuous agents are slowly advancing anti-creature legislation as you ordered. We are also advancing martial law measures in preparation for our takeover of the ministry, though honestly with recent events it is almost too easy. Indeed known members of the light proposed an extension of the letter-screening and ministry-approved Hogwarts curriculum that was enforced under Fudge. We have also recruited two Unspeakables," Lucius knew better than to name the pair in an open meeting and ended his report there with another bow.

As he dismissed Lucius, Snape glided forward, bowing. "My Lord, it is done. Dumbledore is dead," Voldemort felt like he'd been slapped. After all these years, Dumbledore was dead and at the hands of a student. Snape for his part looked jubilant... if you overlooked the paleness of his face and his shaking hands, easily mistaken for fear though the Dark Lord knew it wasn't.

"Ah." So the plan worked. "Young Draco succeeded then?" he asked.

"Yes, my Lord." Snape replied with his head bowed in apparent submission. His jaw was tight with anger that Voldemort was supposed to take as jealousy but he knew wasn't. Snape wasn't ambitious enough for that. _Liar_.

"He will be marked at the next meeting and given command over this year's new squad," Voldemort said simply. He would deal with Snape's deceptions later.

"Thank you my Lord," said Lucius with genuine gratitude, if a liberal amount of fear for his offspring. Snape took the dismissal for what it was and gave Bellatrix the floor.

"We have been conducting hit and run raids along with random attacks and kidnappings of light wizards as you have ordered, my Lord. As I'm sure you've noticed." Here her voice turned smug. "The wizarding population has descended into panic. They fear your name once again," she said with a fanatic light in her eyes. He flicked a cruciatas at her and held it for several seconds.

"They alwaysss feared it," he hissed, neither doubt nor arrogance in his voice. It was simple fact.

"Of c-course my lord." She sobbed more because of his displeasure than pain. "I simply..." She fell silent under her Lord's bloody gaze and stood down. Fenrir took Bellatrix's place with a bow.

"My Lord, we have an oath of loyalty from the Devonshire pack, and I have over a third of the werewolves from the Moorland and Welsh packs. We can expect to double our numbers when the werewolf legislation goes through." Fenrir bowed again and Voldemort waved him a dismissal. The Dark Lord was about to dismiss the meeting when a young man named Ratel—one of the first batch recruited and marked after his rebirth—stepped forward with his head bowed.

"My Lord, we have served you faithfully in the quest for magical purity." He stated with a proud fervor. "Why do we in this most noble pursuit choose to sully our ranks with the filth of werewolves and their ilk." Voldemort sighed inwardly—he wanted this meeting to be over—outwardly he gave a cold yet entertained smirk. Fenrir leaped to the idiot and treated them to screams as the young death eater writhed in pain. He tried and failed to worm away as Fenrir started to bite him with his still vicious human jaws. When it started to appear that things would go too far Voldemort wandlessly threw a revulsion jinx at Fenrir, then a shield charm between him and the twenty-something bleeding and whimpering on the floor. Fenrir leaped against the shield a couple of times which Voldemort allowed for the sake of the amusing terror it caused Ratel. When his blood-lust abated, Fenrir looked towards Voldemort seething with fury.

"Take him to the dungeons, Fenrir. No healers, on the full moon turn him. His attitude will be a pack matter then." His anger gone, Fenrir leered and stalked forward to drag a screaming Ratel into the dungeons. "If there is nothing further," and his tone made it clear it wasn't really a question, "the meeting is adjourned."

He walked, teeth gritted, deeper into the castle while the Death Eaters—those that weren't staying at the castle—walked to the edge of the wards. He made it to the library, selected the book he wanted, and disapparated. He arrived at a small field near loch Lomond, and entered a nearby building protected by a Fidelius Charm. He had created it to essentially be his house on the rare occasions that his personal chambers at the castle were not adequate. It had two rooms, not counting a bathroom, and a hidden vault room. He drew his wand left-handed and took down the half dozen wards and locks on the door, hissing with disgust as he hesitated on the final slash of movement in one of the spells and had to redo it. He crossed the threshold, replaced the spells and set the book, Une Étude du Travail et la creation des Isandisos, on the small end table by an armchair. Then with a sigh of relief he limped heavily into the bathroom.

He shrugged awkwardly out of his cloak and robes, hissing in pain as he jarred his injured shoulder. He sat on the toilet with the cover down and leaned against the tank, glad to finally be off his feet. The bathroom was a relatively simple affair: shower and sink, both with snake's head knobs, toilet, and mirrored cabinet with a silver frame of emerald-eyed winding snakes above the sink. He tried to pull off his shirt only to find it stuck against his ribs. He took out his wand and awkwardly cut around it left handed. Finding his shoulder dislocated he relocated it, biting back a hiss of pain, and cast a cooling charm on it. Soaking the remaining bit of shirt stuck to his ribs, he peeled it away. He examined them to find at least one broken under the charred skin. He cast a spell to set it, but like most healing spells of any serious use, the bone mending spell could not be cast on one's self. He would have to leave it. The curse that had caused the burn damage was such that the magical burn salve he had in the cabinet would take several days to fully heal it, but he slathered it on anyway. He tried not to groan in pain out of habit, though no one was there.

After applying the salve and wrapping gauze around his ribs and leg, he summoned clean clothes from the wardrobe in the bedroom. He then limped out of the bathroom and sat down in the comfortable green armchair in the main room. Taking the book off the nearby end table he started reading. He wanted nothing more than to sleep but needed to reference some details to make sure that everything was ready for his new project. He didn't want unanswered questions and worries interfering with the first good night's sleep he'd had since leaving for Romania almost two weeks before. His head still throbbed from the quantity of endurance potions he'd been taking of late. He should have been elated that Dumbledore was gone, but after hating the man for so long it felt rather anticlimactic and...empty.

He'd just flipped to the next section he'd marked in the book when he heard a voice he recognized all too well.

"Not again."

He bolted to his feet with his wand out, almost collapsing as he put his weight evenly on his injured leg. _Avada kedavra_. He cast silently and watched in shock as it passed through Harry Potter.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Harry landed on a soft green carpet and saw Voldemort in all his snake-faced glory leap to his feet in a weird crouch, knees bent ready to move. He tried to throw himself out of the way of the killing curse but was too late; however, it passed right through him without any apparent harm. He 'landed' on the floor, yet felt no impact, and got to his feet. Voldemort, now standing normally, looked at Harry appraisingly and he returned the gaze with defiance. As he stood there, Harry noticed a steadily increasing throb in his leg. Harry's scar split open and he fell to the floor clutching his head, feeling Voldemort's rage and something else flood him. A crutiatas and some other presumably nasty curse passed through him to no effect, and slowly the rage and agony faded.

Voldemort looked at Harry thoughtfully before saying, "I can assume that you are here to use the awe inspiring powers of light to avenge your precious Dumbledore, Golden One?" Harry's scar flickered with fire as that something—annoyance?—flashed again.

Harry had no idea what was going on. This was unlike any vision/dream he'd had before. However the snake did have a point: it appeared he had nothing to lose, if Voldemort could harm him he was dead anyway. Harry drew his wand. "_Expelliarmus, incendio, diffindo, sectumsempra_." Voldemort threw up a shield, but the spells all went through it and the snake himself to no effect.

Harry had no idea what was going on, but his head hurt and his leg was aching for no reason. He now really looked at Voldemort for the first time since he'd arrived. His enemy was wearing loose black pants of cotton or silk with silver trim and a matching long sleeve top, almost pajamas, with black dragon hide boots. He was white with rage and holding his wand in his left hand, which struck Harry as odd for some reason, though he wasn't sure why. Not wanting to stay in a room with a livid Voldy in case the snake found a way to harm him, he walked toward the door only to find that his hand went though it. Voldemort wandlessly opened the door and sat down as though the simple chair was a throne. Harry tried to walk out but found that he couldn't cross the threshold.

"I guess I'm stuck here until I wake up," Harry said.

Voldemort hissed and Harry's scar lit up with pain.

Half an hour later, Harry was sitting on the floor in boredom while watching his mortal enemy, who was seated in the room's only chair, read a book in some language he couldn't understand. He couldn't help wondering at the surreal circumstances. He also wondered why his leg hurt so fucking much but he wasn't going to alert the dark lord to his pain by examining it. He tried to focus on something other than Voldemort but there really wasn't anything interesting in the room and his burgeoning headache made getting lost in thought impossible. He shifted a bit and reached up to rub his temples, noting a distinct stiffness in his shoulder. Perfect, he thought bitterly.

Voldemort looked up and Harry immediately cast his eyes away in an effort to avoid that bloody gaze. He looked around again. He was in a small room with three doors. One of the doors was flanked by two bookcases. A map of Britain on the wall and a small table with what looked like a chess board occupied the space beside the second door to Harry's left. The wall behind him was empty except for the last door and the blank wall to his right held an unlit fireplace. Otherwise, the only furnishings were the chair Voldemort was currently treating like a throne and the small end table beside it.

LVLVLVLVLVLVLVLV

Voldemort appraised his young intruder for a moment before deciding that—throbbing headache or not—this was an opportunity that may not present itself again for a longtime, so...

"So your shepherd is gone and yet you will still walk to the altar as the light's sacrificial lamb? Why? There is no hope for your cause. You would take a meaningless death at the behest of another cowardly, incompetent minister to preserve a corrupt system you admit publicly to loathing." He paused a moment to allow the message to sink into the young martyr's thick skull. "While I kill everyone you care about? One by one?" He asked, his voice low and menacing, leaning forward and ignoring the way it pulled at his burns. Ignoring as well the odd sensation he felt and the way Dumbledore's piercing gaze came to the forefront of his mind.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Dumbledore, Sirius, Cedric, his parents, Dumbledore. The names and faces flashed through his mind and Harry felt his eyes burn as he recalled Dumbledore on the tower still trying to save Draco. Rage flooded him on the heels of his grief.

"By 'kill them' you mean have teenagers kill them to please their bigoted families right?" he grated fiercely. Pain stabbed his scar as Voldemort laughed, high, cold, and cruel, a harsh parody of the carefree sound like the negative of a photo.

"I take it that they are less dead for the lack of my personal attention? Or are you merely disillusioned that a pompous, spoiled, undertrained whelp no older than yourself could kill your precious Albus?" Voldemort sneered. Harry felt the emptiness, the sense of loneliness and loss that had been rather muted over the last few weeks return with a vengeance. He bit his lip to keep it from trembling, and swallowed hard.

"There will always be people who believe in justice to fight you. We will honor him by carrying on," Harry said, wishing he didn't sound so shaky...or melodramatic for that matter.

"And they will follow him to their graves as you will...in due time." Voldemort replied. "Or you could join me in improving this system of apologists, nepotists and self-hating magical restrictions that you find so lacking while sparing your 'loved ones.'" He said loved ones like one would say 'warts'.

Harry hesitated, overwhelmed with the pain of losing Dumbledore suddenly so fresh and raw, like a scab that had been torn off. He wondered for a moment if perhaps he could just give in, live in solace with what remained of his friends and adopted family. Be selfish.

The thought only lasted a moment, though. He knew he couldn't.

"And put them through the living hell that you would turn Britain into? Death would be preferable."

"Supposing that you and yours could live in comfort and relative extravagance?" Voldemort offered seductively. Be selfish, Harry thought. It's your life, your friends. Without Dumbledore you'll probably lose anyway. You'd simply be sparing them a torturous death...

"Unlike your precious pure-bloods I cannot be _bought_," Harry snarled.

"Then you'll die," Voldemort said simply. "Along with every last person who assists your futile efforts." He smiled and Harry felt an irrational jealousy, a vindictiveness that he assumed came from the snake across from him. Voldemort returned to his reading.

LVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVL

Voldemort couldn't focus. He'd been staring at the same page for ten minutes. After their short conversation, Harry had turned, scrubbed at his eyes—to Voldemort's sadistic satisfaction—and said no more. Yet still he lacked his normal obsessive focus. It was frustrating to say the least, and while he could have attributed such issues to his physical state he knew that wasn't entirely the cause. He'd been in far worse condition before, it shouldn't serve as quite such a distraction. He just couldn't get Dumbledore's face out of his head or the overwhelming sense of worry and doubt and...

He was already reviewing his plans, trying to find something he'd overlooked, before he realized that it was the boy's feelings bleeding though the mind link. His wand hand twitched with the urge to torture something over the fact the it hadn't occurred to him immediately. He closed his eyes a moment to clear his head. Seriously how did the boy have a coherent thought with all of this white noise? When he opened them he realized with some interest that the teen in question was fading.

A/n: Thank you all for bearing with me during this overhaul and thanks to my awesome new beta PsychoLeopard.


	2. Chapter 2 revised

_July 5th_

Harry woke with a start in his bed at Privet Drive and almost puked. As the sickness faded so did the throb in his leg. Curious, he examined it, yet could find nothing wrong. He closed his eyes and thought over his strange experience, trying to figure out what had changed in this vision. Though he considered the events for hours, he could not figure out why Voldemort had been able to see him. Something must have changed to intensify the connection that much. The only thing that he could think of was that he was coming of age, but that was still several weeks away. Perhaps it did have to do with his magical maturity, but in a physiological instead of chronological sense. It was the best guess that he had until he could ask Hermione or...someone. He sighed and tried to push Dumbledore from his mind as he continued with his chores.

Three days later, Harry was just finishing weeding the garden when he saw a garter snake slither towards the house.

**"Hello,"** he hissed.

**"You can speak to me?"** the snake replied incredulously. **"Who are you?"**

**"I'm Harry, and you are?"** he asked politely.

**"My name is Kraxil,"** the snake answered. **"How can you speak to me?"**

**"It's a long story,"** Harry said with chagrin. Then on a random impulse he asked, **"Would you like to come in?"**

**"Is there food?"**

Harry laughed. **"I'm sure I can find something."**

The snake hissed agreement and Harry put his hand down to let it slither up. Harry hadn't heard from anyone in the three weeks since the end of term. In fact, his longest conversation had been with Voldemort, and what did that say about his life? For some reason—perhaps it was the Dumbledore's death and the sudden feeling of isolation—he found himself desperate for someone to converse with, to rant to. A strange bone-deep longing that he usually didn't have. The Dursleys largely ignored him nowadays but he wasn't nearly desperate enough to feel bad about it. He retired to his room and fed Kraxil one of the mice Hedwig had brought home.

**"So you are a wizard?"** asked the snake awkwardly.

**"Yes, though I'm underage,"** he responded in case Kraxil wanted him to cast something.

**"Were you the one who released the serpent king?"** Kraxil queried in awe.

**"No,"** Harry said simply, assuming it would be awkward to mention being the one who'd slain the basilisk. They conversed for a bit longer before Harry got in bed and Kraxil coiled himself up on the floor. Harry immediately realized that there wasn't anywhere in the spartan room for Kraxil to stay, not where he wouldn't be seen. He considered putting Kraxil under the floorboards but quickly discounted it. Even if the snake could survive there, it would be too much like being locked in a cupboard. Harry couldn't inflict that on another being.

After contemplating the predicament for awhile, he got up and left the room. He sneaked down the stairs and into the kitchen. Going to the trash, he searched though the boxes, grateful that he hadn't had to take out the garbage that day. He selected one that was about a foot by six inches and slinked back to his room. Once safely back in his room, he stowed the box under the bed. He waited a few minutes in case one of the Dursley's had decided to stir themselves from the TV long enough to bitch at him for 'interrupting' their viewing. When it became apparent that he would be left alone, he got the box, opened one end, and placed it back under the bed. The flaps of the open end were pulled to within a couple inches of each other.

**"Go on,"** Harry said with a smile.

**"Thankssss,"** hissed the snake with an undue amount of gratitude. Kraxil then slithered under the bed, into the box. Harry smiled to himself, happy that his new friend was content. It was odd that he would bond so quick with a snake of all things. A disturbing thought tickled at the back of his brain but he fell asleep before he could firmly grab and examine it.

Harry opened his eyes to a tiny room containing only a bed covered in black and silver sheets, a small silver-trimmed black nightstand with a jug on it and a matching wardrobe. He turned and bolted when he saw Voldemort was laying in the aforementioned bed. He grabbed the door knob, opened it and promptly walked into a wall; well, an invisible barrier at any rate. Excellent. Stuck again. He looked back at the bed. It was completely Slytherin, with a silver snake motif headboard and two bedposts made of some black wood, possibly ebony, that ended in carved basilisk heads with ruby eyes. However, it was Voldemort himself who caught Harry's attention. He was lying on his side, body curled in on itself. As Harry watched, a violent shivering racked the older wizard's body, then stopped. Harry suddenly realized that he had touched the door. Perhaps he could...

He sighed before he even finished the thought. Even if he could bring himself to, he had no muggle weapon. Well maybe...He pointed his wand at the monster's neck and swallowed hard, feeling ill. Then he thought about how Dumbledore had also been cut down in the same manner...without remorse...on this snake's orders. He still felt sick but the rage was helping.

_"Diffindo,"_ he whispered. Nothing happened. He tried again, a little louder and more precise. A few sparks flew from his wand and Voldemort bolted upright, wand in hand. Harry caught a grimace of pain before it was gone and a second later he hit his knees. Spells cascaded around him, but he didn't notice. His scar felt like it had been slit with a dull knife and it was as though someone was flaying the skin on his ribs. He screamed in agony while rage and an uncharacteristic terror flooded him.

When Harry could finally open his eyes, he looked up to see Voldemort sitting up in bed. While his wand was nowhere to be seen, Voldemort's hate-filled gaze was fixed on him. However, the effect was rather diminished by the glazed look in his eyes, the somehow-even-paler-than-normal skin and the sheen of sweat that Harry could see even from where he was crouched. Voldemort rose and Harry noticed the way his jaw clenched with the motion. As he stood, Voldemort grabbed a bottle that Harry hadn't seen from behind the jug on the nightstand. He drank from it, pocketed it, and walked through the door with what Harry thought was a slight limp. Odd. Harry thought. Why would he be injured? He certainly had access to healers even if he was a poor healer himself.

Harry found himself still crouched but on the other side of the doorway, though he had no idea how he got there. Voldemort sat in the chair that he had been sitting in the last time Harry had dreamed of being there and summoned the book to himself. He perused the book while Harry watched.

About a half an hour later, Harry heard a thump and looked up. He saw that the book had fallen to the floor and walked over curiously. He realized with shock that the dark lord had fallen asleep. On a whim he picked up the book, and while he couldn't understand the words, the diagrams made it clear that it had something to do with staffs. Perhaps this would be useful information for Dumble... the Order he thought. He tried to commit the title to memory.

He looked up again at the monster in the chair and decided that it was extremely disconcerting watching him sleep. He wondered what was wrong. Maybe he's dying of an illness, he thought with a perverse sense of hope. Then again, maybe not, and when will I get another chance like this? He pulled his wand and whispered,_ "Diffindo."_

It went through the snake like every other spell they'd tried on each other. Gathering all of his Gryffindor courage, he slipped over as quietly as if he was sneaking into the kitchen at home. He picked up the heavy snake-motif candlestick on the end table with the intention of bludgeoning the monster. When he tightened his grip, however, his hand slid through it as though he were a ghost and the candlestick clattered to the floor. Voldemort stiffened, a killing curse flying on instinct before he was even fully awake.

As the Dark Lord came fully conscious, he focused on Harry. Harry, who had thrown himself to the ground to avoid the spell, was already back on his feet. He tried not to show his embarrassment at 'dodging' the harmless spell. Voldemort glanced down to see the candlestick, then focused back on Harry. Through the link he felt a string of emotions too fast and subtle for him to individually pick-up. He also felt his own irrational fear of the for now-impotent enemy in front of him though he tried to ignore it.

Voldemort laughed his cold, high-pitched laugh and gave a cruel smile. When he finally spoke, mocking concern dripped from the words like venom. "Tsk, tsk, tsk and in cold blood too? Whatever will your fellow lion cubs think?"

"They'll thank me, I'd assume," Harry responded, trying to make his tone icy.

"As they should, I suppose. If you were actually able to do it, of course," Voldemort said, his demeanor suggesting that the concept was high comedy. "How many of them, however, would do the same in your place? How many wouldn't trade you for their own life? For the right to honestly say it isn't their problem? Why should you be their sacrifice?" he finished, almost cajoling.

"Because no one else will." Tears filled Harry's eyes and his voice shook pathetically, but it held conviction.

"You will die at seventeen for a society that won't raise a hand to help itself? One that spent a year in denial instead of fighting and now offers only knee-jerk reactions and political rhetoric?" he asked.

"The order fights! We'll always fight, besides you haven't managed to kill me yet either," said Harry with an arrogance he didn't feel. Anger flickered through the link.

"Ahh yesss, and the Order numbers what, twelve wizards and a dog?" asked Voldemort.

"Forty-eight and counting," retorted Harry with fierce pride. He didn't show the sting of sorrow he felt at the jab towards Sirius. A lightning quick flash of something that felt too pleasant to be anything good filtered through the link.

"So you and your twelve wizards and a dog, sans Dumbledore of course, will go up against the might of my Death Eaters, werewolves, vampires and dementors."

"We have the giants, the centaurs and the Veela on our side," snarled Harry before he realized what he was saying. Voldemort had not known about the Veela, or for that matter the Order's numbers. He clamped his mouth shut, feeling sick. Voldemort didn't even try to continue the conversation. He merely leaned back in the chair with an expression of disinterest and an accompanying flicker of satisfaction.

After about fifteen minutes, Voldemort shifted from his casual position, sitting up straight and alert. Harry had to stifle a laugh at how much the image reminded him of a dog that heard something. He would have laughed aloud, but he didn't want to start another conversation for Voldemort to exploit. They passed an interminable amount of time with Harry lounging on the carpet and Voldemort sitting bolt upright in what had to be an uncomfortably stiff position, alternately glaring at him and reading. Harry noticed occasional tremors run though his enemy and the way the dark wizard's fists and jaw clenched when they did. He was musing on this at some point when he felt a sting on his face. He opened his eyes to see that Petunia had slapped him.

"WAKE UP!" she screeched. "You're lazier than my sister. Go, go, Duddykins needs breakfast if he's going to beat that little punk in the boxing match tonight."

"Uhnrg," Harry responded eloquently. For a second, Harry almost missed the relative peace and quiet of the house he kept dreaming himself to. Reason then took over, reminding him to be glad that at least he was safe for now. If only he could say the same for the rest of wizarding Britain. A cold stone of worry and guilt settled in his gut. He desperately wished to get out of Privet drive and do something. With a resigned sigh, he forced himself to get out of bed and start the day.

Harry spent the day doing his usual chores and shooting the breeze with K'raxil when he could get away with it. He was in a rather bad mood, partially because of the mandatory ego-stroking that he apparently 'owed' Dudley the 'star' boxer. The other factor was that he appeared to be coming down with something. He was randomly experiencing cold, shaky spells throughout the day, despite the uncomfortable eighty-degree weather; and despite the fact that the Dursleys always underfed him, the thought of food made him nauseous. Getting sick at the Dursleys was miserable, since it meant working sick while being treated like a leper. Fun. So it was with relief that he retreated to his room. More exhausted than he should have been and barely glancing at Kraxil in his box, Harry collapsed on his bed.

That night passed much the same as the previous, except Voldemort simply pretended he didn't exist instead of launching a vicious, if ineffective, attack. Harry had once again arrived in the bedroom. Voldemort had been reading, stretched out in bed, with his back propped up on pillows against the headboard. Harry sat on the floor again and they stayed like that until Voldemort fell asleep. As soon as he did Harry started to notice the periodic shivering. About fifteen minutes later, the dark lord's eyes snapped open and Harry again felt the agonizing wave of rage and terror. This time, though, it subsided almost immediately, leaving him feeling shaky and his scar throbbing badly.

"You didn't try anything," Voldemort stated as though coming to a conclusion. "So...you are neither as suicidal as your mother nor as reckless as your father. Perhaps you are not the consummate Gryffindor that you would have your entourage believe." Harry flashed back to his Sorting what felt like a century ago. You'd do well in Slytherin. He felt his face redden with shame he could hardly argue with the assessment. They died for the cause. He had gotten people killed and now stood talking to the monster they'd died fighting.

"At least my mother died protecting me," he snarled back. Though the Dark lord's expression didn't change, through the scar Harry felt a tidal wave of rage more powerful than anything he ever felt hit him.

The next thing he knew, he was picking himself up off the floor. Voldemort was looking at him curiously, as though he was a strange type of bug. Without thinking, Harry voiced his frustration and confusion.

"Why the fuck is the link so fucking strong all of a sudden?" he wondered aloud. He felt a flicker of surprise and realized that Voldemort had thought he had known the cause.

"Perhaps your precious headmaster was doing something to dampen the effects," Voldemort offered, surprisingly civil. With shock, Harry came to a second realization: Voldemort was as interested as he was in understanding the properties of the link. Harry thought about that explanation for a moment. As much as he hated to admit it, the idea that Dumbledore had tampered with the link without telling him wasn't really that farfetched. The man did everything on a need-to-know basis and somehow his fucking trump-card never needed to know. Old, childish resentment at being left out of the loop burned in Harry. Then he remembered to consider the source and calmed some.

He was about to say something nominal in Dumbledore's defense when Harry woke up in his own room to the sound of a car alarm. He sat up for the next two hours pondering the link and unable to return to sleep.

The next night was different. Voldemort had been sitting in the chair when he'd arrived, still studying. Harry wasn't scared, though. He knew by now that Voldemort couldn't touch him, and—sadly—vice versa.

After some two hours of watching Voldemort read, his head aching with said man's annoyance, Harry stood up.

"So what's the deal with the staffs?" he questioned, genuinely curious. He'd never heard anyone mention them before. "Is your wand too short or something?" As immature as it was, Harry just couldn't resist the temptation to needle his enemy, knowing that there could be no retribution.

Voldemort's lip curled in disgust. "How eloquently stated," he replied, returning to the book. Harry was reminded painfully of Snape, and he felt a surge of murderous rage towards the cowardly Slytherin traitor.

Harry smiled as an idea occurred to him, born of boredom and impotent rage. He took a deep breath before belting out, "WEEEE ALL LIVE IN A YELLOW SUBMARINE, A YELLOW SUBMARINE..." Voldemort gave a rather complicated wave of his wand. An expression of disgust crossed his face while Harry felt his scar sear with annoyance. Apparently it was another spell that didn't work, whatever it was. For the next ten minutes, Voldemort continued to ignore Harry and Harry continued to sing snatches from whatever British invasion songs popped into his head. He was just about to run out of ideas and repeat his 'set' when Voldemort snapped.

The dark lord leaped up and started firing spells. _"Silencio, Crucio, Mutatio Corporis, Ignis Spiritus, Spiritus Percusserit..."_ He finished breathing a bit faster and glaring at Harry.

"What in our name are you doing?" Voldemort snarled, apparently all out of patience. Pain flared in Harry's scar, more rage but of a slightly different flavor tinting the burn.

"Trying to be as much of a pain in your arse as I can...or find out what staffs are for."

Voldemort hesitated for a bit, then pocketed his wand with his right hand. With his left, he set the book on the small black stand by the chair. "Staves are wands," he said simply.

That made no sense to Harry. Practically speaking, it would be a waste of wood and not cost-effective if they were the same thing. Unless wands were just newer technology, so to speak, which would explain why he'd never seen them in a shop. But then why would Voldemort be interested in them? He asked as much, omitting his musings about Voldie's plans, and felt a flicker of something like surprise as Voldemort gave him an appraising look.

After a moment, Voldemort responded, "There are two main differences between staves and wands." Harry had the odd feeling he was in class. "The first is what they actually are. Where a wand is of course a luppiter..." At Harry's look of incomprehension, Voldemort exhaled and clarified, "A wand is a luppiter or focus. They're designed to channel and direct your energy. A stave, on the other hand, is an isandiso, or amplifier. It magnifies your energies. There are also katals, such as censers, fetishes and totems that help the caster access certain branches of magic." A flicker of impatience and anger went through his scar. Harry took a step back before remembering he was safe, eliciting a small smirk from the Dark Lord. Harry resisted the urge to duck his head in shame.

All of this was fascinating to Harry. Why had he never been taught any of this in school? Why though, had Voldemort added that last bit? It hadn't really been necessary. Not that he was complaining, but it made no sense for Voldemort to be this 'informative'. He was either lying or else had some ulterior motive for telling Harry. However there was no reason to lie about something that Harry could so easily verify. Therefore he had to be setting Harry up, though for what Harry had no idea. As Moody says, constant vigilance!

"So why doesn't everyone just use staffs if they increase your power?" Harry asked. A spark of something like pleasure flickered though his head. Harry suppressed a shiver.

Voldemort hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Two reasons. The first, specifically concerning staves, is about how they function. Wands are crafted for people: they favor a person whose magic is compatible with theirs. They can—theoretically—be made specifically for one person. A stave, on the other hand, is crafted for magic, and can only cast spells in the one to three branches of magic it was crafted for. However, they have the slight upside of working the same for anyone. They can be and are mass produced. The second reason is that isandisos are illegal without a special permit and training in Britain, in Europe actually."

"Oh. Why? How do you get a permit?" Harry asked raptly, completely forgetting who he was listening to.

Voldemort smiled coldly, and Harry felt another small spark of anger chased by something like amusement. "Again there are two reasons. The first is practical: they're dangerous. If you perform a spell incorrectly with a luppiter it simply won't work, or will only half work, as I'm sure you're aware." Harry ignored the dig. "If you make a mistake with an isandiso it can go off target, cast a similar but unwanted spell, or overload in a raw burst of magic. The second reason is fear. There are few enough wizards with the skill to use them effectively, and fewer still in the ministry, that the government feels it's 'unfair' to allow those who can use them to do so."

That seemed reasonable to Harry—Voldemort was scary enough with just a wand—but he said nothing. There is only power and those too weak to seek it. That law must have seemed like the ultimate affront to Voldemort.

"As to how you get a permit?" Voldemort continued rhetorically. "You don't. The only permits Britain issues are for high-ranking aurors to get ministry issued battle staves, since they obviously need something deemed too powerful for the general public to control said public." Well he isn't bitter or anything, Harry thought in amusement. He had to admit, however—if only to himself—that the discrepancy in power was a bit unnerving. Especially when considering situations like Sirius'. "Healers on St. Mungo's staff or attached to the ministry can also apply for permits for healing staves, but that's it." Harry realized a little belatedly that Voldemort's motive for giving him this information was to make him question the ministry's restrictions.

In the pause that followed, Voldemort momentarily closed his eyes just a second too long to be a blink, and Harry noticed that his hands were shaking slightly. Harry had almost forgotten how ill he'd been. Harry opened his mouth to ask about the kitles when he felt a force shove him. For a moment he wondered if there was an earthquake or something. Then he had opened his eyes and came face to face with Aunt Petunia. She proceeded to rant about how he wasted her time for a fair half hour while he cooked breakfast.

That night, Harry lay on his bed trying to find the words to write a letter concerning the odd turn his dreams/visions had taken. He looked over at K'raxil asleep in his box. The snake had become oddly comfortable there and Harry appreciated having someone, or something as it were, to talk to. Harry had dreamed himself to that house three nights in a row now. It was enough of a change in intensity and frequency to warrant the Order knowing.

He looked down at the parchment in his hands.

Hey, Ron and Hermione,

How are you guys doing? Are you still at the Burrow? So my dream/vision/things have gotten weird...well weirder. I've had them the last three nights in a row and Voldemort can see me now which is creepy. I can also interact in some ways like picking stuff up but Voldemort can't do anything to me. His spells go right through me. Sadly it works both ways, and the same goes for physical attacks. Anyway, I thought the Order should know about the change. He appears to be trying to make a staff too. I'm not entirely sure why though, other than that it will increase his power. I guess that's reason enough. Yeah Voldy's gonna have a superwand, fun, fun, fun. Anyway, I hope you guys are well. I can't wait to get out of here and get to work. Oh I almost forgot, there is something wrong with him. He's ill or something. It would probably be a good time for the Order to launch an attack.

Hope you're well, Harry

Harry sent the letter off with Hedwig, grimacing at the thought of Hermione's rebuke for not learning occlumency. His stomach churned oddly at sending the letter. A worm of guilt that had nothing to do with his—absolutely not enjoyable-'excursions' and more to do with a sense that he was committing some foul, took up residence in his gut. If he thought about it logically though, he knew he wasn't doing anything wrong. He had told the order everything of import. He stomped the worm and laid back in bed to get comfortable. He should be dreading falling asleep, falling back into that snake hole; yet, he found that he wasn't. He supposed knowing that Voldemort couldn't touch him took some of the horror away, made it seem rather like a movie. He had to remember to ask about the kitles.

Petunia woke Harry the next morning and he went down stairs to cook feeling very refreshed. He realized with a strange pang that he hadn't dreamed at all.

A/n Thanks again to my beta psycholeopard


	3. Chapter 3 revised

_July 13th_

It had been three days since Harry's last dream, and he lay in his bed trying to relax enough to fall asleep. Harry felt woefully under prepared for the task he was set to perform. He had to get in Voldemort's head and outwit him to destroy the horcruxes. The thought was scaring the hell out of him. It wasn't so much that he was scared of what Voldemort would do to him, as that he was terrified of not living up to the wizarding world's expectations. The idea that he would have to try to think like Voldemort wasn't pleasant either.

"You're scared. I smell your fear," Kraxil stated as though it was a helpful observation. It wasn't.

"I'm about to play a game of wits and skill with one of the darkest wizards of all time," Harry replied with a shrug. Feeling ashamed, he added, "It would be like you fighting a basilisk." He had to admit, if only to himself, that it felt good to not have to be the fearless boy-who-lived and savior-of-the-light with someone, even if it was just a garter snake. He wondered for a second if that was why Voldemort kept Nagini around, then dismissed the thought with a laugh. Voldemort was supremely haughty. He had no doubts to share. He liked Nagini because she was a powerful, venomous snake: a mark of his position and bloodline. Harry laid back in bed, closed his eyes, and tried to forget his anxieties.

LVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLV

Voldemort sat in his workshop at Slytherin castle, looking down at the items he had collected in his travels east. The pieces were high quality. They would make a decent prototype until he could create the enchantments he needed for the final product. On the table in front of him lay a hollow stick five feet long. One half of it was red oak for shields and countercurses. The other half was blackthorn for curses. They were magically melded so they flowed into each other seamlessly.

A pair of cores, one made of griffin bone, the other of erumpent horn, lay alongside it on the table. They were carved at one end into a griffin claw and erumpent head respectively. The other end extended in a rod with a hole drilled in the tip. He placed these in the hollow stave so the holes lined up with a hole drilled though the middle of the stick where the two woods melded, leaving only the carved heads showing. Next he grabbed a peg of snake-wood that he'd prepared with a special bonding charm and jammed it through the three holes, gritting his teeth as his shoulder jarred out of place. He watched as the staff glowed light blue at the joint, looking at the finished product with satisfaction. The result was a staff of red oak and blackthorn with a carved bone griffin claw sticking from one end, and an erumpent head from the other. A cobra's head carefully carved on the joining peg stuck straight out from the center like the handle of a tonfa.

Picking up his newly crafted stave, he went into his personal training room to test it. Since there were no witnesses, he took it easy. Ego had no place when training alone with a new weapon and still healing body. Pointing the griffin head left-handed, he fired a simple blasting curse and took out half of the practice dummies, the recoil forcing him back a few steps. Two of the other dummies fired curses and he spun the staff. A shield wall trailed the erumpent's head, twice as thick as it would have been with the same effort by wand. He switched ends again, taking out the other half of the dummies. He ended the set grasping both ends the stave with the cobra's head pointing out, summoning a dozen pythons with Serpensortia.

After a few more minutes he headed back to his quarters. He would certainly need more practice. He would hardly take the staff into battle right now, but it was everything he had pictured it would be at this stage. There was a meeting at the end of the week. He would have a prime target or two to test the stave with if he desired it. He almost smiled at the thought. Sadistic anticipation occupied those thoughts not on battles plans.

HPHPHPHPHPHPH

Monday morning Harry awoke with his scar stinging. He searched his memory and couldn't remember having any dreams, so he focused on the sting of the scar and was vaguely aware of a pleasant glow. It took him a moment to place the feeling. It was the same one he'd had when he'd received his firebolt. Well this can't be good, he thought ruefully.

Unable to get back to sleep he was awake when Petunia yelled for him. When he got downstairs she glanced at him.

"So you actually deigned to get your ungrateful rear out of bed today?" she sneered.

"Yes ma'am," he grated. The rest of the day passed in an uneventful blur of chores. Until about two o'clock in the afternoon, that is. Harry was weeding the garden when a scream pierced the quiet summer morning.

"Aaaarrrrgggg heeeelp!"

Harry ran around the corner of the house to see Kraxil cowering between two of the garden rocks with a fat gray tomcat swiping at him. Harry yelled at it and the cat took off with an extremely pissed yowl. Harry picked up Kraxil, who curled into a tight, motionless coil in his hand.

"Th-thankssss," he hissed, though his voice shook with fear.

"No problem," Harry replied, concerned. "Are you okay?"

Kraxil paused for a moment before answering. "I seem to be unharmed. Again thank you."

Harry smiled, happy that his companion was safe. Even the fear accent was gone. He had no idea why he still had the snake. He assumed that Voldemort's taste for snakes coming through the link was the main cause. That coupled with his own loneliness had probably caused him to befriend Kraxil initially. He couldn't explain why he was letting the snake stay, though. The very idea of a pet snake should have repulsed him. He chalked it up to loyalty. Well, that and the fact that the snake was actually better company than most people he'd met. At least Kraxil didn't judge him or make assumptions strictly based on his being the boy-who-lived. It was pleasant.

LVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLV

_July 21th_

The night of the meeting had arrived and Voldemort was exhausted. He'd been working around the clock between training, battle plans and the upcoming election. That aside, however, he was used to keeping such hours. Thanks to his new body didn't need as much sleep as a human. No, his exhaustion was mostly of a mental variety. He had strengthened his occlumency shields, and kept them at peak strength all day instead of strengthening them just before bed. He was operating as though a mental attack was imminent even when he was alone, because apparently it was.

He wondered what had caused the strengthening of the bond, allowing him to see and interact with the boy. Potter had seemed too surprised by the turn of events for it to be likely that it was a conscious move on the child's part. That meant one of three things had happened. One: Dumbledore set it up as a fail-safe to activate when he died. That would be the best case scenario since it would mean there was a reason that he hadn't done it sooner. Inversely he could have been dampening it while alive as Voldemort had suggested to Harry. In which case it would prove detrimental to Harry and/or the light. Two: the boy was being used as a tool in someone else's attack. Three: some external force was acting on the link unbeknownst to all of the relevant parties.

The obvious conclusion was that he would need to know more about the link before he could fix the rather embarrassing and potentially dangerous predicament. He should have studied it immediately, but he hadn't thought that the boy would be alive long enough for it to matter. It had just seemed like a convenient avenue of attack. He allowed himself a tired sigh. One more thing to do.

He realized that it was almost eleven o'clock and he would have to call the meeting soon if he wanted Ratel to experience the full horror of what was being done.

With this in mind, he strode to the meeting room. His leg and other wounds had long since healed, though he still wasn't fully recovered from the accompanying infection and fever. He no longer had the infection; however, he found his endurance and strength hadn't fully returned yet.

He called his Death Eaters and surveyed the room while some sixty Death Eaters entered through the various doors or apparated in.

"For the first order of business: Lucius how goes the election?" Voldemort prompted.

"We have been campaigning extensively. However, it looks like Raul will only get about twenty-five to thirty-five percent of the vote, according to recent polls," Lucius replied, trying to keep his nerves at the failure from showing. Voldemort nodded. That was to be expected. They would simply have to either assassinate, bribe or Imperio whoever did win. He had hoped that they would have more public support, but that would come in time.

"Fenrir, I believe you have a matter to attend to," he stated. The man in question walked forward, still human—or as close to it as he got—the moon having not yet risen enough to trigger the transformation. He was dragging a filthy, bloody, teary Ratel by a dragon hide rope attached to a silver choke collar, hands and feet bound by silver chains. Pathetic. Fenrir threw him to the floor and waited, smiling horribly. Standing out from all the filth was a blood-soaked, poorly wrapped bandage. It had fallen off enough with his rough treatment to show an ugly bite mark already scabbed over, from the day before. After about five minutes, Ratel went from sniveling to full-on sobbing. Fenrir started kicking him to make him shut up. A couple of minutes later, Voldemort lost patience, silenced him, and fired a Cruciatas curse out of annoyance.

The change started at eighteen minutes past midnight. Voldemort watched with his Death Eaters as Fenrir turned, admiring the fluidity with which magic brought to the surface the beast that all humans had within them. Voldemort removed the silencing charm, letting screams and pleading fill the room.

"Oh god, oh god oh god. No. Please no!" cried Ratel

With a changing throat Fenrir rasped, "You got one thing right kid. You're gonna be one filthy wolllllf." He ended howling, and advanced on the silently sobbing young man. Fenrir circled, trying to maximize the fear.

"Noooooooooooo..." Ratel screamed in fear and revulsion as the change started taking effect. It wasn't uncommon for the first few transformations to come on later in the night and take longer to complete. Some silent legilimency showed that the wizard had in his ignorance actually thought that the bite hadn't infected him. The loss of hope was delicious. He transformed slowly, fighting it tooth and nail as his scream turned to pure pain.

Fenrir was now fully transformed. Voldemort moved fluidly through a complex wand motion and silently cast corporea obice, creating a shield wall through which no one could pass but spells could be cast. He then unlocked the restraints. Ratel didn't even try to stand as Fenrir, made cognizant but no less dangerous by wolfsbane, walked forward. Ratel scrambled back until he hit the shield and lay whimpering. Fenrir bent down, biting with as gentle a nip as he could while still breaking skin. A taunt. Fenrir stood nipping, teasing, waiting for Ratel to catch up and the action to begin.

When he was fully wolf, he rounded on Fenrir with a snarl and leaped. Fenrir rolled to the side, spun, and jumped on Ratel's back. Fur flew as he clawed skin off. Ratel howled in pain and with pure wolf instinct twisted around and tried to slash Fenrir's face, but missed. Fenrir rolled off with a twist that threw Ratel off his feet. Fenrir hit him with a growl, biting everything he could reach, and then it was over. Ratel was on his back exposing his stomach, backing down. He accepted Fenrir as his alpha, or at least his wolf did.

Voldemort spelled the silver shackles back on. The bands magically opened, expanded to the right size, then contracted tightly, causing the wolf to howl in pain. Voldemort dropped the shield and Fenrir walked Ratel to the dungeon with the leash in his mouth, looking as proud as a niffler with a bag of gold. Fenrir gave the dragon hide rope a vicious tug here and there, making the younger wolf yelp in pain.

"All of the new initiates, step forward," Voldemort ordered with no inflection. Draco and half a dozen others stepped forward. Voldemort looked at the line of teens with disdain, remembering the state of education Potter had demonstrated. Normally initiations were done in groups of two to five every couple of months; however, this was the new crop of Hogwarts graduates. They were all seventh year Slytherins, with the exception of Draco for obvious reasons.

"Cast the Cruciatas on the person to your right, starting with Draco." Draco's face and knuckles were bleached white with nerves, but he cast the spell and the boy to his right screamed. He held it for several seconds, until Voldemort nodded. The boy struggled to his feet. He was shaking so hard he couldn't even say the incantation. He finally got it right on the third try, his victim shrieking in pain, having been surprised by the sudden effectiveness, and so it went through the other new recruits.

Voldemort watched, using legilimency on both perpetrators and victims. He noted with disgust that with one exception they all screamed and none seemed to have the 'spark' of enjoying what they were doing. Soft purebloods, he thought. It's such a pity magical purity doesn't come with mental fortitude. On the other hand, all of the others performed the spell without an issue. When they had all cast the spell Voldemort spoke again.

"Sever the ring finger on your off-hand."

All the boys blanched, a couple gasped. Voldemort resisted the urge to curse them all in annoyance. He didn't remember even the greenest wizards being so soft during the first war. Slowly, screams filled the room, though the boy who couldn't cast the Cruciatas also couldn't get his Diffindo spell to work, and another simply wasn't trying. Ignoring the screams and moans, he approached the boy who wasn't doing anything. The boy started shaking, some of the defiance leaving his gaze.

"You were given an order. Why are you not obeying?" he demanded.

"I-I-I'm not going to m-multilate myself f-f-for anybody, sir," the boy stuttered.

"Then you shouldn't have sworn fealty to anybody," he replied with finality and walked away, hearing the boy's sigh of relief. He turned to see that despite their pain, the five boys who had obeyed without question now wore incredulous looks. He hid a smirk. He walked along the row, collecting a few drops of blood from each in vials and relishing in how they shivered as he passed. He returned to the dais, looking at the children. All were on the floor writhing, except for the one who hadn't screamed before, who was doubled over whimpering.

"You may heal yourselves." His tone suggested it was an act of great compassion.

Those that were able stared back with fear and confusion. The pride of Salazar, they are, he thought in annoyance, and contemplated just torturing them all until they bled out. That would be a waste of resources though, he reminded himself. He waved his hand, beckoning one of the Death Eaters forward. The Death Eater stopped the bleeding from each boy's finger and gave them a potion to regrow it.

"Consider this your first order: considering you will be going into battle, you should at the very least know a coagulation spell. Assuming, of course, that you wish to leave the heroic deaths to the Gryffindors. They have more enjoyable usssses assss well," he said, exaggerating the hiss for effect. He was pleased to see the recruits shiver.

"Now." On cue, a Death Eater walked up leading three muggles. They were maneuvered and magically bound in front of three of the initiates. Voldemort quickly immobilized and levitated the two boys who didn't perform the finger cutting in front of Draco and the other remaining child. "Cast Avada Kedavra," he instructed with a cold smile. He was careful not to actually cast the spell. In almost one motion the five victims dropped, though he noticed that the boy next to Draco hesitated slightly. They always had so much trouble when it was someone they knew, a friend. He sneered mentally, pathetic weakness.

"You hesitated. Why?" he asked the boy.

"H-h-he was my...we shared a dorm, my Lord," the boy stuttered.

"Ahhh, so he was your 'friend'. My apologies, I was unaware. For future reference do any of you have 'friends' who you prefer not to have to kill?" he asked, his voice dripping with false sympathy.

"I serve you, my Lord, I serve the cause. Nothing else holds value," they stated with one voice. Obviously their parents had taught them well. He silently executed the useless, sentimental boy.

"Step forward and submit unto your Lord." He enjoyed ritual even if it was somewhat inefficient. If nothing else it gave a sense of formality and discipline. It was the same reason aurors stood in formation for events. Draco stepped up onto the raised platform where the Dark Lord was standing and knelt, holding out his arm. Voldemort indicated that he should stand.

"Morsmordre," he intoned, touching yew to the boy's skin. Draco yelled with a voice already hoarse from screaming, but kept his feet. Voldemort transfigured the boy's robes into apprentice Death Eater robes, conjured a mask onto his youthful face, and dismissed the boy. While it was not common knowledge, there were actually three different death eater uniforms. All three were aesthetically identical. However, while apprentice robes were just robes, the standard and lieutenant versions were crafted with a cocktail of enchantments by his artificers. After the other recruits had repeated the process, he dismissed the lower ranks, leaving only his dozen lieutenants, minus Fenrir.

"Severusss." He made the name sound almost seductive. The man stepped forward to meet Voldemort's curse. The potion master would pay for his lies, however useful he was. Voldemort had contemplated using his new staff. However as much as it galled him to acknowledge he didn't know enough about the connection yet. For all he knew Harry could have been watching the entire meeting unbeknownst to him. No while he had no problem with using it to seed fear and doubt in the little lion there was no need to for him to see it's exact make and capabilities.

Snape didn't hit the floor until just before Voldemort needed to lift the Cruciatus to keep him from passing out. It wasn't until he started the fourth round that the man finally screamed. That was fine, the challenge Severus presented was amusing, and although he'd never say it he had to admire that kind of grit. He intensified the curse.

A/n Thanks again to my excellent beta PsychoLeopard.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Warning non graphic depiction of child abuse.

27th of July

Harry awoke to find the house empty. While this struck him as odd, he didn't question it too much. Returning to his room he retrieved Kraxil and lazed on his bed discussing the war. It felt good to air his worries to someone with no expectations. To his surprise snakes didn't really care what happened as long as there were speakers around. Kraxil had explained that without parseltongues (or speakers as snakes called them) snakes were not given proper respect. Kraxil seemed extremely bothered by the fact that most humans didn't credit snakes with sentience.

Roughly an hour later, he took Kraxil with him and went into the garden. He realized with no small amount of joy that after this summer he would never have to return. It was quickly followed by a small pang of regret as he looked at the flowers. They would probably wither without him. If it hadn't been for Petunia's slave driving, his constant hunger and exhaustion, he probably would have really enjoyed gardening. He had just bent to pluck some weeds when he heard a resounding series of cracks. He jumped, cracking his head on the window sill, and looked around.

He stared shocked at the dozen or so order members who were apparating into the yard. Hermoine ran up and hugged him while Ron greeted him awkwardly.

"Oh Harry we hadn't heard from you in so long. I thought something had happened!" she gushed.

Before Harry could respond, Mad-eye started explaining the plan involving six decoys and a lot of unnecessary danger to people not named Harry. After too little discussion, during which Harry surreptitiously stowed Kraxil safely under his sweatshirt, it was decided. Ron helped Harry pack his meager possessions and they were on their way. As they left Harry realized that he had left no indication of where he had gone. Then he realized that he didn't care. The Dursleys would probably just be relieved until dinner anyway. He found himself smiling as he and Hagrid flew away.

When he finally arrived at the Burrow, Harry immediately secluded himself with Ron and Hermoine.

"Why were you so worried? I wrote," he asked.

They gave him quizzical looks. "We never received any letters Harry," said Hemoine slowly.

Harry thought back. "But Hedwig always came back fine. She was never attacked that I saw." Harry was worried now. Had something been done to Hedwig that he didn't know about? He wished that he knew a diagnostic charm.

"So what's been going on?" asked Ron. Harry quickly recounted the changes in his vision/dreams and what he'd seen, though he skipped over the lecture on staffs and didn't go into detail about Voldemort's apparent illness. He looked up to see Ron looking awed and Hermoine looking horrified.

"Good God, Harry!" she breathed. "You must learn occlumency. This isn't safe!"

"You hung out with you-know-who?" Ron questioned at the same time in a stunned voice.

"Well it wasn't really hanging out. There were a lot of curses being thrown; they just didn't hit." Harry replied, feeling sheepish for some reason. "And yes, Hermoine, I know: The stronger the connection gets the more likely he can use it against me. I'll work on it.

"Harry," Hermoine started sounding like Mrs. Weasley, " this isn't even about the war anymore or even the pain of your scar-though I'm sure it hurts." Good ol' Hermione: always compassionate... and inadvertently patronizing, Harry thought with affection and just the slightest sting of annoyance. "Being in the mind of a madman cannot be good for your psyche. I mean your brain is still developing." She sounded genuinely scared.

He knew that she was making a valid point, however he couldn't bring himself to feel anything but annoyance. He didn't really want to probe that line of thought too deeply. He was aware enough however, to realize that the lecture on staffs was the closest thing he'd had to a civil conversation since leaving Hogwarts. Unless you counted Kraxil. He worried sometimes that he was relying too much on the little snake for companionship. It wasn't his fault though; it wasn't like he had many options. He wished that didn't seem like such a flimsy excuse. Oh well, he was at the Burrow now so everything would be okay. A shout from downstairs shattered his momentary contentment.

"YOUR EAR!" They rushed down to see Fred and George standing in the entrance. One of them was holding his hand to the side of his head with blood dripping between his fingers. Fleur and Molly looked on in horror. Bill was also watching with an almost approving expression on his face. Bill stepped forward and slapped the wounded one on the shoulder.

"Your first battle scar, eh?" Bill asked, smiling. "Don't worry, the ladies will love it...if they stay long enough to get the story." Molly cuffed him and held the injured twin, who tried to wriggle away.

"Oh George. My baby," she gasped. Ron and Bill faked vomiting.

"How is everyone else?" Harry asked, feeling sick.

"Ve lost Moody," Fleur said without care. Harry's stomach dropped.

"How did it happen?" Molly asked.

"Snape, the traitorous cur," Fred snarled, looking downright homicidal. Harry seconded that emotion privately. He would have loved to get his wand on Snape and crucio him til...Harry's scar seared. When his vision cleared he wiped away tears of pain. Seeing everyone looking at him with worry, he forced a smile.

"Well Voldy's not amused with my continued existence apparently," he quipped.

"Pity that." George said with a more genuine if vaguely sadistic smile.

That night Harry lay in bed thinking. He had put Kraxil in a box under the bed with clear instructions not to leave. Harry's mind wandered back to the discussion of magic implements he'd had with Voldemort. If he was honest with himself, it was more of a lecture than a discussion, but whatever. He felt woefully unprepared. If he didn't even know about basic artifacts than how could he compete with the generations of esoteric pureblood knowledge known by Death Eaters like the Malfoys and Lestranges? Never mind Voldemort himself. He was in so far over his head…he caught himself before he got to full panic mode. This is what he wants. He wants you to be in awe, in fear. Harry chided himself. Voldemort probably talked so freely to make me feel inferior. Comforting thoughts but it didn't change the fact that there was a decades-long gap in both knowledge and practical experience to overcome.

LVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLV

Voldemort was practicing with his staff again. Spinning with a snarl, he cast a parseltongue spell. "_Agiro Pahssle_." A mass of serpents made of water leaped from the small snakewood knob in the center of his staff. He was panting somewhat by this point. Still he continued the routine, pouring all of his frustration and stress into the spells to increase their power. He tried to get lost in the rage and the adrenaline of simulated combat.

Keeping one's mental shields at maximum all the time was exhausting. He'd had a more or less constant headache lately from it. It also didn't seem to be working. He could feel Harry's feelings knocking against the link: annoyance, helplessness, fear, worry, guilt, and worst of all the occasional fuzzy touch of something warm like being licked by a dog. He couldn't thrust them away because they were technically still outside his mind.

He destroyed the dummies with a conflagration curse from the blackthorn end of the staff. It was infuriating. He almost wished he'd ordered Snape to teach the boy occlumency properly, despite the loss of tactical advantage, just for the peace of mind. That was just human weakness talking, however. He cared nothing for emotion. Why should the boy's be any different? Besides, watching him spiral into doubt was rather amusing and it would give him an angle to...tenderize the boy.

Satisfied with his self-training, he left the training room and retreated to his study. He was sweating heavily considering his snakelike body, so he cast a cleansing charm.

He sat in front of the table in his study staring at the strange chessboard on it. It was an exact copy of the one in his Loch Lomond hideout. It was three-tiered with an odd variety of pieces representing the players in the war. The tiers represented the ministry, Hogwarts and Britain in general. He wasn't really paying attention to the layout however, instead he contemplated the progress they'd been making. Thicknesse was doing a good job of infiltrating the ministry now that he'd been imperio'd. Whether or not they would be able to consolidate power quickly enough to get his agenda for Hogwarts pushed through he didn't know. Still, it was their first significant gain in the war, other than Dumbledore's death

Voldemort also had to wonder at the ignevolucrem Harry had cast. As furious as it had made him at the time, it also gave him a very important piece of knowledge. They had either finally started training Harry, or he had finally got some initiative and wasn't going to calmly try to die any more. Well, he can die flailing about with spells then, but he'll still die. Voldemort took a shot of a potion made from Nagini's venom, ashwinder dust, ground ice sage and a bit of firewhiskey, and felt the cold wash over him.

A small flame rose from tip of his wand like a cigarette lighter and he held it over his bared forearm counting. Three seconds and he felt the heat. Seven seconds and he began to feel pain. At twelve he extinguished the wand and examined the mark. The skin was Red and slightly blistered but certainly far less than was natural. Over the next two or three months he should become almost completely impervious to fire. At least if the progress continued at an even pace.

He filled the next few days dealing with the day-to-day operations of the ministry takeover and futilely trying to study the link. Unfortunately, none of the known causes of a spontaneous mental link would apply in this situation. He was simply putting off one of his more self-serving missions. It was already the thirtieth of the month. He knew that the rare downtime wouldn't last and resolved to accomplish the distasteful task tonight, before anything else could crop up to take his attention. Finishing the last bit of paperwork-formally signing the werewolf treaties- he put away the writing utensils and threw on his black traveling cloak.

He walked through the castle even though he could technically apparate through the wards. He had employed a useful bit of now-illegal blood magic to exempt himself from the wards when he wove them. However, he found that his occasional presence kept the Death Eaters from becoming complacent. He also saw no reason to announce those things that could possibly offer an edge since they weren't supposed to be possible. You'd think people would learn: the impossible was what he did. He'd made a lifestyle of it. Soon enough, he thought, allowing a smile to twist his face. He would need all of the enjoyment he could get for the upcoming encounter.

His wing included the study, private training chamber and private workroom. He continued through the heavy and highly enchanted iron door into the war wing. The bulk of the first floor consisted of workrooms, labs, medical and training facilities, two armories and a massive library.

The halls in this area, as well as the second and third floors' 'living areas' where the Death Eaters stayed, were hung with paintings, tapestries and other art. They were necessary trappings to appeal to the pureblood sense of wealth and power. However even after almost two years in the refurbished castle he still felt mild disgust every time he looked at them. While he could appreciate expensive artifacts and tried to surround himself with the best of everything, there was a difference between cost and value.

He sneered at a 'black crystal' torch in the wall. True black crystal torches were difficult to make and combined the effects of Peruvian instant darkness powder with a hand of glory. He had two of them personally and another three in the lieutenants' armory. Those on the walls, while cheaper than the real ones, were still exorbitantly expensive for the sake of it. Proof of wealth for those without the ambition to find or skill to make the real thing. He continued on, bypassing the gaudy dining hall where he met with his lieutenants as though it were a state dinner. He continued through the main meeting hall and out into the antechamber and double doors of the entrance.

Exiting the castle, he cast a disillusionment charm, rose into the air, and headed for Grizedale Forest. Again, he could have easily apparated. However, he'd found since he'd acquired the ability that he rather enjoyed flying. At least when reliance on flimsy and easily tampered-with implements wasn't necessary and practicalities permitted it. Why anyone─especially a typically mortal wizard─would trust those contraptions was beyond his comprehension. He chalked it up to the general stupidity of people.

Landing lightly at the edge of the forest roughly an hour and a half later, he ended the disillusionment. Grizedale was one of several forests where those of his followers that couldn't or wouldn't live in the castle stayed. It only took a few minutes for the dementors' representative to recognize his soul (or lack thereof) and arrive.

Voldemort strode toward the tall, cloaked figure just inside the tree line. He resisted the urge to wrap his own cloak tighter as he felt the temperature drop, lest the figure take the gesture for fear. That was the secret in dealing with dementors: you couldn't be afraid. Easy enough when you were a barely-human immortal, or so the rumors went. There was some truth to that. It had gotten progressively easier the more he tore his soul. However, the nightmares he got afterwards had gotten progressively worse. As far as he had discerned, the soul pieces had some form of contact in the dream realm, and the dementors worked directly on the soul instead of the mind. Something about that thought clicked into place, and his stride faltered for a moment.

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind to deal with later, he formally greeted the dementor with the raspy breathing that passed for their language. Changing back to English and ignoring the chill he continued, "I assume the tribute was to your satisfaction?" He layered as much haughtiness into the tone as possible.

"Hhhhaaa," came the hard exhalation, almost a cough, which was an affirmative to the strange being.

"You have my cloak then." He intentionally phrased it as an assumption. Politeness with dementors got you kissed.

Hhhhaaa," the dementor breathed. It handed him a bundle of material, coarse and ragged. He allowed himself a pleased smile. Despite the unpleasantness of the encounter, it was worth it.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

The next few days passed in a blur of work and Mrs. Weasley's interrogations. Harry found that the flashes of anger that had dogged him through fifth year had returned, though he could now tell that they were from the link. He guessed that had to do with the other changes. Despite that, he found that he sought the company and closeness of his friends more than ever. He supposed that it was the stress he was under and how he realized that this might his last year with them. He'd been pathetically grateful when they had told him they were coming with him on his hunt for the horcruxes.

On the night before his birthday, Harry lay in his bed with his eyes closed. He tried to ignore the sense of impending disaster that threatened to consume him long enough to fall asleep. It was kind of like the feeling he had last year, knowing Malfoy was going to do something terrible and being powerless to stop it. Only this time it was all of Britain that would suffer. He hated not being able to fight back. He couldn't wait to get onto the horcrux hunt.

He tried once again to calm down. This train of thought was not helping him get to sleep. He tried to focus on some of the changes Hermione had mentioned in the few moments of privacy that they'd gotten. The Ministry seemed in danger of becoming a cure worse than the disease. The legislation she'd talked about concerning werewolf registration and wand restrictions seemed like downright sabotage. Then again he supposed that it very well could be. Surely Voldemort had agents in the Ministry. He shivered slightly, his thoughts chasing themselves in circles until a restless sleep finally claimed him.

When he opened his eyes he stood on a small, patchy lawn. A boy with black hair was kneeling in front of him. Harry realized that this was a young Riddle, eight at the oldest. This was odd, as he has never seen the past in his 'dreams' before. This was more like a pensieve. He walked around to see what the boy was staring at, and saw that he was holding a bloody ribbon. On closer inspection, and with a slightly sick feeling, he realized it had been a small garter snake no bigger than Kraxil. It was now flat and burst, its innards hanging out. For a moment he assumed that Riddle had killed it, an early manifestation of his psychopathy. He then saw the boy's face. There was no glee or even twisted pleasure. In fact, it was completely and utterly devoid of expression… except for his eyes. They burned with an anger so intense that he expected the grass to catch fire. Righteous anger, hatred and a need for revenge hit his mind with all the shock and power of an ice-cold ocean wave.

Then he heard a taunting voice calling over, "Your little pet isn't so scary now, is it freak?"

Riddle walked away, eyes still raging infernos. While he said nothing, Harry's head reverberated with words. I WILL WIN. BILLY STUBBS.

The scene shifted. Riddle was lying on his bed in the dark, perhaps a year or two older. There were footsteps coming down the hall. Fear so thick it felt like he couldn't breathe started to drown Harry. A man walked into the room. Unlike Riddle, he was shrouded in darkness, features hidden.

"Don't," hissed Riddle and neither of them realized he'd switched to parseltongue until the man replied.

"Don't speak to me in the devil's tongue." He approached the bed without hesitation. Harry felt panicked, the magic that always came so easy suddenly nowhere to be found in the flood of fear and adrenaline. Pain, he was helpless, useless, weak. Harry swallowed bile as he looked away, but it wasn't enough to block out what was happening.

"Remember, demon spawn, you deserve this. God punishes the wicked." Harry heard the rough voice even over the screams. He squeezed his eyes closed and covered his ears, but it didn't stop the cascade of fear and shame at not being able to fight back.

After an interminable amount of time, the scene shifted again. A young Riddle was lying on his bed again, only this time he was face-down, shaking and clutching a threadbare pillow. Voices carried from down the hall.

"Don't worry, Amy. I'll get you your yo-yo back," said a boy's voice, full of white knight bravado.

"T-thanks," came the shaky reply, from Amy presumably. Riddle bolted up and hastily scrubbed his face, taking a few deep breaths. A boy and girl walked in, and Harry felt his rage. How dare they just walk in like that, like HIM.

"I'm just here for her yo-yo," said the boy not looking quite so brave.

"I didn't touch her yo-yo." The snarl didn't quite cover the way Tom's voice cracked.

The boy laughed. "You get the switch again?"

I wish, thought Tom bitterly.

The boy shrugged. "It's your own fault you know. It wouldn't happen if you weren't such a creepy little thief. Now give me her yo-yo." Harry felt Riddle's mortification as he got the yo-yo from under the bed and threw it at the boy.

"Get out of h-here." He tried snarling and the two kids left as quickly as they could without running. As soon as the door shut, Riddle collapsed onto the bed and sobbed. Shame, helplessness, rage and plans for revenge the second he could get away with it twisting in his head.

Harry awoke to Ron shaking him, "Oh thank Merlin. I've been trying to wake you for..."

Harry promptly puked on him and the floor. When he'd finished emptying his stomach he cleaned up. Then, after apologizing sheepishly, he took a shower, still shaking and trying to convince himself that it was just a dream.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry finished showering and got dressed in the jeans, t-shirt and jumper Molly had provided. They were ones that Ron had out-grown and they fit him almost perfectly. He then staggered down the stairs. Finding Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen, he forced a smile through his pain.

"Do you have any headache potions?" he asked.

"Sure dear, right this way." She walked into the bathroom and took a small red vial out of the medicine cabinet. He took it from her and downed it.

"Thanks." He retreated to his room already feeling it starting to relieve his migraine. Arriving, he collapsed on the bed then promptly sat back up. As desperate as he was to sleep, he dreaded what he would dream about. He tried to convince himself that the terrible nightmares-still so vivid in his mind-were just that. Yet he knew they weren't, and he could still hear the screams and see those burning eyes in his mind.

He didn't know how much time had passed before Ron woke up. Harry still had a pounding headache, despite the medicine, and no desire to eat, but he followed Ron to breakfast anyway. Harry sat at the table and tried to eat the bacon, eggs and pancakes before him. He felt shaky and nauseous, like he was recovering from the flu. The others talked animatedly but he ignored the conversation. He was just about to excuse himself so that he didn't bring them down with his mood when there was a knock at the door.

Mrs. Weasley opened it to reveal a golden-eyed man with air of danger. _Excellent Scrimgeour because my morning was just going too well,_ thought Harry bitterly.

"Good morning ma'am," he greeted and joined them in the dining room. Harry half listened to Scrimgeour. His mood continued steadily worsening as he listened. Then his foggy brain cottoned onto the fact that they had withheld his inheritance, that they had disrespected Dumbledore's last wishes. They'd turned a hero's legacy into a political move when he had done more for wizarding England then the entire worthless ministry put together. He started shaking as white-hot rage overrode his better judgement.

"HOW DARE YOU!" Harry roared as he surged to his feet, his temper finally moved around Ginny to where the minister was rising from his chair and, landed a right hook on Scrimgeour's jaw. Pain radiated through Harry's hand. Scrimgeour lay on the floor with his wand in his hand looking shocked, he'd obviously expected a magical attack. Harry stood panting as the Weasleys and Hermoine stared at him stunned. Scrimgeour calmly rose from the floor and righted his chair.

"Well Mr. Potter, it's good to see where your loyalties, or lack thereof, lie. We will of course be holding onto these items pending your hearing for assaulting a ministry official." He swept out and Harry would have sworn he was smirking. Mortified, Harry returned to his room and locked the door.

He was still sitting on the bed when Hedwig rapped the window with a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. The headline read _'Muggles in Terror as Dark Mark Hangs Above Small Neighborhood in Sussex: The wholesale slaughter leaving over a hundred dead is believed to have been the work of a small team of elite Death Eaters.' _Harry threw it at the wall and fell back on the bed, trembling.

He should have known. The thought repeated itself in his head over and over. He should have known that Voldemort would be on the warpath. Of course there would be an attack. He should have told someone, warned someone, gone out and met them on the field of battle himself... something. He could feel himself starting to panic and took a few shaky breaths. Before he could fully calm down he heard a knock and Ron walked in.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said. However, the devilish grin on his face took some of the force out of his words. Of course, he was still right. The last Harry needed was to be a wanted man. At the moment, however, he couldn't really bring himself to care.

"How mad is your Mum?" he asked quietly.

"On the face of it: furious, but secretly she's wanted to do that since he tried to steal you from Dumbledore last Christmas. Mostly she's just worried about you," Ron replied and Harry cast his eyes down unconsciously in shame.

He wondered with renewed guilt if Ron had seen about the Death Eater attack. He dreaded talking about it. That would eventually lead to explaining how it was his fault all those people died. Ron would find out eventually though, and his Gryffindor courage wouldn't let him avoid the subject.

He retrieved the _Daily Prophet_ and handed it to Ron. As he read, Ron's eyes widened in anger.

"How could the ministry let a huge attack like this happen in a muggle village? A muggle village?" he yelled.

"I could have stopped it. My…'dream'…I knew he would be mad. I just didn't make the connection. I'm so used to only dreaming about things that have already happened…." That felt like the most hollow excuse ever uttered. Harry wished he could pull the words back into his mouth.

"You knew he'd attack Sussex?" Ron's eyes shot to Harry face with a shocked expression.

"No, but I knew he was beyond angry." I would have been too, came the unsolicited thought in Harry's mind. He shoved it away, disgusted with himself. "I should have made the connection that he would go after muggles."

"That would have been useful considering how few places there are in England to attack muggles. I'm sure that would have narrowed it down," said Hermione. Harry looked up to see that she had entered without him noticing.

"Surely they could have magically monitored it or something," Harry pushed.

"If they could don't you think they already would be?" she asked in a soft voice. He found he had a rather large lump in his throat at her calmly factual rebuff. He nodded an affirmative and coughed.

"I just came here to tell you that you're an imbecile for attacking the Minister of Magic," she changed the subject abruptly, though her expression showed there was truth in her previous words. He and Ron started laughing despite the complete lack of anything remotely funny happening. They laughed for the simple normality of Hermione lecturing them. Though she tried hard to fight it Hermione found herself succumbing to whatever had come over them. They laughed until they cried.

LVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLV

Earlier that night

Voldemort woke with a scream. He destroyed the nightstand wandlessly, almost without thought, and strode from his cabin. He walked clear of the wards and apparated to the first muggle village that came to mind. _"Lauffeuer!"_ he roared. Fire leaped from his wand to the first house. He could have cast it silently but he wanted them to know. _"__Crucio!"_ A muggle screamed then stopped abruptly.

He strode through the village torturing and slowly killing the muggles as they fled the fire. He flicked his wand lazily at someone on the ground. _"__Exentera!"_ He watched as the figure's stomach burst, his entrails falling out. _"__SäureBlut!"_ he screamed and a woman writhed as her blood ate through vessels, muscle and skin. She would be nothing but a puddle on some burnt grass in minutes. As his rage was slowly sated he paused a moment to focus. "_Qui exemplari-etcanalis- iterum."_ This was a variation on the standard doppelganger spell. It would create multiple copies all of which would drain a bit of his magic while casting the same spells he was. It was exhausting but in this case worth it.

He heard the cracks of apparition a minute or two later and knew that the Aurors had arrived. _"Finite,"_ he ended the doppelganger spell, cast up a Dark Mark, and turned to face his new opponents. Upon seeing some thirty Aurors flooding the neighborhood, he cast a blasting curse at the 'gas pumps' outside of a store for distraction. They reacted as Bellatrix had described, bursting into fireballs that would rival some of the best curses. The Aurors predictably ran towards the explosions. As they bunched up, he pointed at their backs. _"Catena __fulgur."_ A green lightning bolt leaped from his wand, striking and jumping between the dozen members of the two squads investigating the explosions. Satisfied, he rose into the air and flew until he cleared the hastily erected apparition wards.

He arrived on the grounds of Slytherin Castle. Realizing that he was still attired in the black and silver cotton he slept in, he transfigured his pajamas to robes. He saw the few Death Eaters still awake at this hour dropping in fearful bows as he walked to the library.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

The Weasleys spent the remainder of the day conducting last minute wedding preparations for the next day's ceremony. Far from being in trouble, Harry was treated like the hero of the hour by everyone except Mrs. Weasley and Fleur.

He finally collapsed into bed at almost midnight, exhausted from the day's chores. He tried to stay awake, terrified of the new hell his dreams would cast him into. Despite his best efforts, however, he fell asleep almost immediately.

Harry awoke almost without even realizing that he'd slept. His night had been free of dreams, visionary or otherwise. Seeing that Ron had already left, he went down to breakfast. The festive atmosphere improved his mood greatly, and soon they were all heading outside for the ceremony.

Harry was in the middle of a rather illuminating and upsetting conversation with Ron's auntie Muriel about Rita's book and Dumbledore's past when a patronus in the shape of a lynx interrupted the ceremony.

"The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming," was the message it carried and Harry felt his insides freeze in horror. The ministry couldn't have fallen this quickly. How, it wasn't possible!

He and Hermoine ran to find Ron while Death Eaters apparated in around them. Fortunately, they found him quickly and Hermoine immediately apparated them to a muggle village. They entered a café, ordered coffees, and took some time to assess their situation.

To Harry and Ron's surprise and amazement, Hermoine had anticipated their escape and prepared well. She had an incredible amount of things, including a multitude of books, camping supplies and both wizarding and muggle money, stuffed in her bag.

After escaping the café following a short duel with a pair of Death Eaters, they found themselves at Grimmauld Place. As soon as they got through the jinxes on the door and got inside, Harry's scar started to sear in pain. It felt like someone was cleaving his head in two and he ran for the bathroom. Collapsing on the floor, his vision changed. He was watching Draco torture a man. It was one of the Death Eaters who'd attacked them in the café! He saw the horror in Draco's eyes and in the way his hand shook slightly. Under the torrent of anger Harry was pleased with how the boy was coming along, although he still looked rather ill. Oh well, time would break him of...

Harry felt himself thrown back into reality, although physically he hadn't moved. It took him a moment to gather his senses before he realized, Voldemort had noticed his presence and actively thrown him out. Perhaps there was something important in the vision that Voldemort didn't want him to see? He looked in the mirror; he was ghost white and looked like he had the flu. He splashed some cold water on his face and cast a quick glamour before heading back out. Hermoine did not need to know about that at all.

Harry couldn't sleep that night, so he got up and went into Sirius' room. He wasn't exactly sure why, he supposed he just wanted to feel closer to the man who had been the closest thing to a father he had. Looking around, he stumbled upon a letter his Mother had written to Sirius. As he read it, his eyes welled with tears. Merlin, how he wished he could have known her! He could practically feel the love radiating off the page. Just as he was finishing reading, his scar started to burn furiously, making his eyes water until he couldn't even see the page.

When the burning relented, he wiped his eyes and tried to look for the apparent second page of the letter. He had no luck. In light of the rumors Muriel and Skeeter were spreading, he desperately wanted to know what it 'seemed so incredible that Dumbledore...' had done. After nearly an hour of fruitless searching he decided that it must have been lost years ago. He left the room with dragging feet and his head bowed, surprisingly exhausted.

As he walked down the hall he noticed a door with the nameplate: _Regulus Arcturus Blac_k. Harry stared at the sign as realization hit. R.A.B. The locket!

He woke the others and they spent the dawn hours searching until Hermoine remembered that she had thrown it away while cleaning. Harry called Kreacher to see if perhaps he had 'saved' it. They spent the next hour listening to the surprisingly heroic tale of Regulus. Afterwards something about Kreacher's story niggled at him like an itch in his brain. He couldn't for the life of him put his finger on what though.

During the next couple of days Harry felt exhilarated. They finally had a lead on the locket, awaiting only Kreacher's return. Harry finally had something proactive to do and he felt great. Lupin came by on the 4th and brought them up to date on the outside world. The ministry had indeed fallen, and Voldemort for all intents and purposes controlled Britain. Muggleborns were being rounded up and registered. Harry was wanted in questioning for Dumbledore's death, as well as for his assault on Scrimgeour. Basically, everything had gone to hell and they didn't even have a hand-basket.

Lupin also asked if he could join Harry on the hunt, but Harry shot him down. The man should be with his wife and unborn kid. He had no right to go gallivanting off and abandon them. What if he got Lupin killed? He knew how much he wished he'd known his parents; he couldn't do that to another kid. After Lupin left, however, Harry almost wished that he had thought it through a bit more. Hadn't he been worried about his lack of experience? They really could have used an older wizard like Lupin on the team. Well it was too late now. At any rate, he knew he'd made the right decision, even if it wasn't the right one for himself.

Later that day, Kreacher returned and Harry's mood slowly took a turn for the worse. The days became weeks, an endless string of turns staking out the Ministry and dodging the lurking Death Eaters. That was of course broken up by the hours of boredom. The anger and frustration he received through the link grew to an intensity which rendered him rather bad company. It didn't help that Ron and Hermione were often together. He felt rather like a third wheel most of the time. As a result, Harry found that he was secluding himself more and more in the manor's library. He halfheartedly hoped that he'd stumble across something in the dark archive that would help him in his hunt.

His 'talks' with Voldemort had made it painfully clear how unprepared he was for the coming war. A small part of him was hurt and indeed slightly resentful that Dumbledore hadn't prepared him better. He felt rather guilty about resenting Dumbledore, especially now that the man was dead, but he chalked it up to the anger from the link. Spending so much free time around the old books he had begun to understand what Hermione found so fascinating about them. Today he was on his stomach, on the floor, idly flipping through a moderately sized volume. It was bound in grey velvet, embossed with gold and entitled Wandlore: A complete guide to wand making vol II: Cores. Suddenly, he found a passage that caught his eye.

_Phoenix feather compatibility: The phoenix feather core is among the best in terms of raw power. It will choose a wizard whose mind is geared towards the scientific and analytical. __These will be__ wizards of a __realistic__ disposition who are not given to wishful thinking or flights of fancy. A tendency towards finding solutions to problems as opposed to exploiting the possible advantages or simply easing the symptoms is another __favored trait, as__ is a desire to push boundaries and __decline to__ accept limitation. An aggressive pursuance and protection of one's personal independence and __freedom,__ especially in thought and __speech,__ is one of the more unsettling traits associated with the feather._

Thinking of the way he had taught the DA and how he had always been rather self-sufficient, he could easily see how these fitted him well. However, he also knew from Dumbledore's lessons how well they fit Voldemort. Though Voldemort's grandiose self-image would negate part of the description. Then again, the wizard could fly without a broom and came back from the dead, so maybe it wasn't really that much of a fantasy. Harry felt a chill crawl down his spine as once again their similarities seemed to stand out like a highlighted passage in Hermione's class notes.

_It will usually choose those of great courage. This __especially__ includes those who will stand firm in their convictions and strive, even against great __odds,__ for their cause__. In adversity, those chosen by the phoenix feather__ will fearlessly push their limits and sacrifice of their own __persons__ for their cause._

While the description was certainly flattering, Harry couldn't comprehend how Voldemort of all people could fit it. Although he supposed blood purity was technically a cause, however disgusting. As he thought about it, he realized in a sense it actually fit Voldemort quite well. After all, it said nothing about the rightness of the cause, only that there was one. Then he kept reading.

_A general tendency toward honour or a personal code as well as an aggressively protective sense towards one's clan are also good indicators of compatibility. __However,__ unlike with __a__ unicorn tail, heart attributes are the secondary characteristics of __compatibility,__ with mind being the primary._

Harry's first reaction was that this was absurd. However the book did say that they were secondary indicators. A tiny voice in the back of his mind that whispered about unfathomable rage and a dead snake was steadfastly ignored.

_Magic being the tertiary and least characteristic in the phoenix feather __triumvirate,__ a wizard of almost any magical pattern can be chosen. __However,__ some favour is seen towards those strong in healing spells and combat __magic,__ particularly of a defensive variety._

The book continued on through the capabilities, acquisition and proper use of it as a wand material but Harry found himself on edge and unable to focus. Leaving the library, he went looking to see if Ron wanted to play some exploding snap. Hermione had of course brought a pack, because who wouldn't think to bring entertainment when going questing for soul bits? Of course he was glad she had. This horcrux hunting thing wasn't exactly the epic quest of Death Eater dodging and booby-trapped hiding places he'd been expecting. Not that he was complaining...much. Not being able to do anything but bide their time was almost worse than the danger in Harry's eyes.

A/N Thanks again to psycholeopard my beta. Everything belongs to JKR.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N fixed a typo sorry about that. I own nothing, also sorry about that :)

Harry woke with elation. They were finally ready, today was the day. They would infiltrate the ministry, get the locket and start making some actual progress. He felt like he'd had a draught of euphoria. Bounding down the stairs he ran smack into Hermione.

"Oh, sorry," he said, laughing.

"Uh, it's ok….you seem happy," she replied, sounding unaccountably worried.

"Well of course, why wouldn't I be?" he asked, wondering why she sounded so accusatory. Observing her unkempt hair and pale complexion, he sobered.

"This isn't a quidditch match, Harry. We're breaking into the Ministry of Magic. We could go to Azkaban." Her voice trembled slightly in fear but her scowl reminded him of Ms. Weasley.

Giving her a brief nod, he went down to the dining table. Ron entered a few minutes later and they ate in subdued silence. Ron glared at him occasionally over the table. They had tried without success to get Hermione to stay behind since Lupin had brought news of the Muggle-born registrations. Ron still blamed him for not being able to convince her.

After breakfast they finagled their way into the ministry and were almost immediately separated. The Ministry, now under Death Eater control, appeared to not be running all that smoothly. Then again, Harry thought to himself wryly, when had it? Ron was almost immediately conscripted to fix some flooding in a random office and a little later Umbridge herself hauled Hermione away to take notes for her. Harry wished they'd come up with better disguises. After finding Umbridge's office empty of their objective, Harry managed to find Ron and they went looking for Hermione.

On the way something suddenly caught his eye and he paused. On one of the small, museum style display stands that decorated that section of the Ministry sat a small scepter. It was silver with a teardrop shaped blade at each end. At the wide part of one blade was mounted a large white pearl, with a small black pearl next to it on the shaft side. On the other blade the arrangement was reversed. Somehow he knew that this was an item of immense power and he wanted it badly. Ron gave him a tug and he came back to the present, looking over at his friend. Ron gave him an odd look and immediately let go. Harry followed him down the hall.

After reuniting with Hermione and a short conversation that resulted in Umbridge being stupefied and them acquiring the locket, they made their escape. If he survived this, Harry thought, he really should do something about his anger management. On their way out, they passed the scepter again and Harry grabbed it off the stand. Alarms sounded, frighteningly close, and they ran faster. Hermione looked furious and he assumed Ron did too, though he couldn't see his face. He couldn't have explained why he grabbed the scepter, other than the fact that he felt it was too powerful to pass up. Anyway, Death Eaters controlled the Ministry, so he rationalized it wasn't really stealing.

They narrowly managed to escape the Ministry workers searching for them and apparated away the second they had cleared the wards. Unfortunately, they also brought a Death eater with them and promptly were forced to re-apparate to the world cup field.

While Hermione tended to Ron's splinching wound, Harry examined his prizes. First was the glass orb of Mad Eye's eye which he'd taken from Umbridge's door. His throat tightened slightly as he looked at it and he quickly stowed it in his mokeskin. Had he not known it would be helpful in avoiding Death Eaters, he'd have taken the morbid trinket to Moody's grave and left it.

Next he examined the scepter. One of its curving blades hooked forward and the other back towards him. He could feel a strange power thrumming through it, like holding two magnets side by side. The end with the larger white pearl and −thankfully− forward facing blade seemed attracted to him such that he had to lock his arm to keep the back of the blade from smacking his face.

Last he took out the locket. After checking that Hermione was still fussing over Ron, Harry opened it. Standing on the locket was a small version of Riddle like the one he'd seen in Dumbledore's memory applying for the DADA job, though somewhat younger. He thought again about the magics Riddles knew, the things he'd done, and felt his insecurities flood him. For a moment, his worries consumed him, killing the buzz of adrenaline he'd been riding since the infiltration. He came to himself as the image spoke.

"Who might you be, wizard?" asked Riddle in a measured tone.

"Just someone who's interested in rare artifacts. You looked interesting," he answered ambiguously. He figured that the less the locket knew, the better. Riddle glared.

"I ssaid who are you," the image hissed.

"And I said: I'm no one." The almost overwhelming sense of inferiority that had latched onto him made his reply sound more pathetic than he'd intended.

"Yet you sspeak the noble tongue, sso who are you?" Riddle asked again, the impatience and anger clear in his voice, along with something else Harry couldn't quite identify. Harry realized suddenly how much of a difference the mind link had made in his dream conversations with Voldemort. He also began to realize that this was probably a very bad idea and tried to remember what had possessed him to open the locket in the first place.

"I'm…" Harry hesitated, trying to think of a proper response that wouldn't reveal too much. "I know your primary form," the phrase popped into his head unbidden. "He formed a sort of bond with me..."

"He would do no sssuch thing," snarled Riddle, his calm, confident voice rising for the first time.

"It wasn't intentional…no one really understands what happened," Harry explained, not wanting to make the image hostile. He might be able to learn things from this bit of Riddle if he played his cards right.

"Oh." If Harry didn't know better he would have sworn he heard embarrassment in the tone. "The Prime shouldn't be so careless. I didn't think we'd have been so careless," Riddle trailed off almost as though forgetting Harry was listening. It struck Harry as odd. Submission and self-deprecation were not normally in Riddle's demeanor, to put it lightly. Indeed outside of the one speech at the graveyard, he had never known of Voldemort to admit a mistake or indeed to feel he'd made one.

Harry was still contemplating this when something caught his attention. He lifted his head to see Hermione heading over. He quickly forced the locket shut and stowed it in his pouch. Both actions took more effort than they should have. Hermione was almost to him by the time he'd closed the pouch. For a moment he was scared that she'd noticed, which was a perverse thought in itself. They were friends after all right? He immediately felt guilty and at any rate it seemed he was worried over nothing. Her expression was absent and her face a mask of worry, clearly directed at Ron. He felt a stab of bitterness at that, immediately followed by shame. So often nowadays he felt like a third wheel he almost wished he was conducting the hunt alone, despite how fervently he'd wanted company in the beginning.

They settled down to dinner around their veiled campfire. Harry noticed that Ron was sitting a little farther away from the fire than he and Hermione were. As he ate he also noticed that Hermione was shifting uncomfortably as she nibbled her own meal. When the tension was so thick that Harry thought he could see the air crackling with it, Hermione finally spoke.

"So Harry, what was that thing that you took from the Ministry?" she asked. Harry produced the scepter from his moleskin.

"I'm not really sure why I took it. It was kind of an impulse," he said, feeling suddenly self-conscious now that he had to acknowledge the act. Ron gave him an odd look while Hermione examined it.

"Hmmm, these runes..." Harry leaned closer to see her point to some faint scratches he hadn't seen before.

"They're slightly different from what I'm familiar with... older perhaps, or maybe a regional dialect. As best as I can tell it says 'Weaken the dark, cast back the light'. Perhaps it's a defensive tool: something that will weaken the magic of an opponent," she theorized. "At the next town we come to I'll try to find some information on it."

Harry felt a rush of hope and renewed determination. "That would be an amazing help against Vold—" Harry started.

"Don't say the name!" Ron yelped, white-faced. Harry glanced at Hermione, startled. She looked back nervously. Then they both looked at Ron.

"I'm sorry, but it feels like a jinx or something. Can we just call him You-Know-Who?" Ron asked.

"Dumbledore said fear of a name―" Harry started.

"That did Dumbledore a load of good didn't it?" Ron retorted. "Just―just show You-Know-Who some respect, will you?"

"Respect?" Harry repeated, earning him a warning look from Hermione. In the back of his mind, however, he couldn't help but wonder if Ron was right. After all, hadn't he been having similar thoughts? Hadn't Voldemort out-dueled him when he wasn't even at full health? Harry shook his head. No, Voldemort was a coward and a killer, and Ron was a coward too if he wanted to respect the serpent.

"Harry, would you get the tent?" Hermione asked out of the blue, obviously changing the subject. Harry complied while she cast a suite of spells over it and the surrounding area. They helped Ron in and got settled down for the night.

"Do you have it?" asked Hermione.

"What? Oh right." He pulled the locket out of his mokeskin.

They looked it over, but for the life of him Harry could not get it to open again. He went to sleep frustrated.

That night he dreamed of Gregorovitch.

Harry was startled awake the next day by Hermoine rushing into the tent.

"Harry look at this!" she cried in a panicked squeak. She clamped her mouth shut when Ron shifted in his sleep, settling instead for vehemently stabbing with her finger at the paper she was holding.

It took Harry a moment to get his glasses and focus on what she was showing him. When he did he felt panic well up inside him like a cobra preparing to strike. She was holding a copy of the Daily Prophet, how she acquired it he neither knew nor asked. It was hard to miss the bold-type headline emblazoned on it: Break in at the Ministry of Magic. Minister of Magic, Pius Thicknesse Assassinated.

LVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLV

Ever since the idea had occurred to him when he'd been meeting with the dementor, Voldemort had become more and more certain that Harry was a horcrux. The problem had now become whether he should renew his efforts to convert the stubborn whelp, or simply kill him and cut his losses with the soul piece. The problem with pushing the boundaries of magic as far he had was that there were no textbooks to consult when one needed answers. Which was why, after interrogating and killing Gregorovitch, he had apparated to a rural wizarding village in northeast Russia.

He had long ago heard rumors of a custom in some Russian wizarding communities involving legal horcruxes to create 'soul-mates'. He'd never looked into it, since the idea of entrusting a piece of one's soul and immortality to another human seemed downright imbecilic. However if there was any information to be found on his distasteful circumstance, it would be there.

He spent the next several hours hunting through the local records and interrogating various people under a glamour, claiming to be a historian. At the end of his search, he had obtained no new information and was desperately itching to curse the whole town into little bloody balls of entrails. The only good thing he'd found out was that he was on the right track. The villagers he'd questioned and legilimensed all knew nothing about the subject. The sort of nothing that screamed of mass-memory manipulation, and very clumsily done at that. It was more like what one would see in muggles that saw a loose dragon than what would pass for use on a wizard. Any villager smarter than a giant would be able to tell something had been done, though none of them seemed to care. It was down right uncouth.

It was almost like they wanted to forget, which given the subject matter wasn't too far fetched. He now sat in the village square, eating food he'd brought from the castle while he determined his next move.

Another few hours of searching and interrogating led him to a secluded and unplottable hut some ten miles from the small town.

He knocked on the door and was answered by an elderly woman of indeterminate age. He introduced himself under an alias as a researcher of archaic magics and started interviewing her with liberal use of legilimency.

"So I understand that you and your husband are among the last practitioners of 'Ritual dusha svyazyvaniya?'" he asked with genuine interest and feigned politeness. He had a small traveler's stone in his pocket. It would make his words sound Russian to her ears and hers sound English to him.

"That would be correct, although I must say I'm surprised that you've heard of it at all, much less of us," she replied.

"Yes, well, I've been studying the old magics for quite some time now," he said, with a touch of pride. He was supposed to be a lowly researcher, after all. "It confuses me somewhat however, that it seems the others here are all too happy to forget such a powerful magic."

She snorted. "They see it as a black spot in our history, like slavery. They fail to see the beauty of the bond. There is no deeper intimacy." She sounded sickeningly sentimental.

"So if you don't mind me asking: what was the process?" he replied, hiding his disgust at her response.

"Well…you could do it with anyone, but it was almost always married couples who did it, and of course you could only do it a maximum of two times," she began. "We had vendetta law in those days." His legilimency supplied an image of her congratulating a friend on the death of a woman who'd stolen from her. "So if it was possible, the man would usually kill someone whom he had a right to and his wife would then kill his sacrifice's wife. If that was not possible for any reason, there was a supply of orphans under the age of 3 months. Food was short in those days and most of them would have died slowly and painfully anyway." A pale flicker guilt and a vague, time-faded memory of her kill came from the legilimency. He curled his lip in disgust at the human weakness.

"Oh, they were better off that way than as wards of the state," she explained with a sickening smile, having misinterpreted his expression as being directed at her act rather than her guilt. As he had assumed she would he was trying to stay under the radar after all. Normal people were concerned with things like infantide. Her mind added an image of a trial or hearing of some sort with a dozen or so wizards all looking at her with revulsion.

"And the effects?" he prompted.

"Other than the obvious one of immortality unless both partners are killed?" she asked rhetorically. "Well there is the link. It's not really a mental link, it's deeper than that. You can't occlude it completely, although with practice and concentration you can block all but the barest impressions. You can't lie to each other, and the blocking I mentioned requires far more concentration than normal occlusion. It breaks down quickly in times of distress or physical harm, serving as a sort of automatic call for help. The red fang –elite aurors−would form a bond chain for that purpose. With practice and familiarity with your partner you can do other things, too. Mental communication and lending physical or magical strength were the most common." The interview continued, but she seemed to not have any more relevant information.

He had been intending to leave her alive, but for some unfathomable reason her very existence enraged him. He forced himself to make conversation until her husband came home and two quick _Avada Kedavras_ ended the centuries-old pair. He returned to England musing on what he had learned and trying to decide what do with his unfortunate horcrux.


	7. Chapter 7

A/n I own nothing, also thanks to my beta psycholeopard as usual.

"Why would Vol...You-Know-Who assassinate Thicknesse? I thought he was their man?" Harry questioned, speaking the hated euphemism through gritted teeth in deference to Ron. Hermione shrugged, her face pale.

"I don't know. I thought the same thing. I suppose this means things will get worse for the muggleborns. I wonder if they knew we were going to the ministry? Maybe they wanted to set you up," she theorized.

"Hmm... maybe, but nobody except the Death Eaters knew it was us. The article doesn't mention us either," Harry considered, equally confused. A part of him wanted to consult the horcrux, but he pushed that thought aside. It probably wouldn't tell the truth anyway.

At that moment Ron came out of the tent, muttering about the lack of bacon and breaking Harry out of his musing. Hermione wordlessly handed him the newspaper. "Bloody hell! They're going through Ministers faster than the Cannons go through keepers," he exclaimed.

They conversed a little longer over another foraged meal, but gained no new insights. Shortly after breakfast they broke camp, and Harry realized with a sick feeling that he'd left Kraxil at Grimmauld Place.

"Damn. I just realized I left something back at number 12," he said.

"You can't really be thinking of going back!" Hermione's eyes widened as she realized that was exactly what he was planning. "That's suicide!"

"It's important," he tried to justify, but it sounded lame even to his own ears. He couldn't very well explain to them about the snake after hiding him for so long.

"What was it?" asked Ron.

"Just a book," Harry sighed, thinking of the tome on wand cores. Hermione's eyes softened a bit.

"I'm sure we can find another copy," she responded in a soft tone. Harry gave up. He couldn't risk his friends over a snake and they would never let him go alone. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps he could sneak back without them noticing. But Hermione was right, it would be suicide, they surely had Death Eaters watching the place. Then again, with the invisibility cloak…

"Harry!" Hermione's worried cry broke into his thoughts, and his head snapped over to look at her.

"Are you ok?" she asked.

"Yeah I was just thinking," he replied.

"I said do you one have the _things_?" Her furrowed brow betrayed her worry. He gave himself a quick once over—horcrux: check, silver-bladed thing: check, moody's eye: check—that was everything. _Except Kraxil, _he thought with a pang of guilt. Hopefully the little snake could just stay hidden until it was safe.

"Yep. Here." He handed her the weapon and she put it into her own bag. The eye was safely in his mokeskin pouch and the locket was on his person.

Once they had finished clearing the evidence of their presence they apparated to the outskirts of a small market town and re-made their camp. When they were done Harry went in search of food under the invisibility cloak. The next hour was a blur of finding dementors, failing to cast even a wispy patronus and running for his life. When he arrived back at camp he gave a brief account of what had happened. Hermione with her usual brilliance quickly identified the locket as the culprit and removed it from his person. The rest of the afternoon passed calmly and ended with an amicable meal by the fire. Harry took first watch while others went to sleep.

As he sat in the dark, keeping lookout, he thought back to the feelings of emptiness and despair that he'd felt as the dementors had come at him. He recalled something that had tickled the back of his mind the day before and since been forgotten. _'I didn't think we'd have been so careless,'_ the locket had said. It didn't fit with its creator's arrogance. Pieces fell into place in Harry's head like gauging the fastest path to a snitch. Filled with a sudden surety, Harry retrieved the item from his mokeskin skin. After a bit of debate, they'd decided that it wasn't safe to sleep with it on. Hermione also felt it was a bad idea for Harry to wear it again so soon, so into the mokeskin skin it'd gone. That way Harry could keep it with him without actually touching it, until Ron relieved him. Again it opened easily for him.

"You again," said the locket. Harry thought the annoyance sounded feigned, but maybe that was his imagination.

"You're Doubt!" Harry stated emphatically, his voice a bit too loud in his excitement over the eureka moment.

"I'm what?" he responded.

"You're his doubt," Harry stated, calmer now that he'd made his revelation. "You're his doubts and… fears and….his inferiority about being a half-blood," he said, knowing he was phrasing poorly. Indeed he hadn't meant to say all of that, hadn't even thought of it until he started talking. Yet he knew instinctively-or perhaps it had something to do with the link-that he was right. Although it was too dark and the figure in the locket too small to really see details, he thought its eyes widened as he'd spoken.

"From what you say, we're the most feared dark wizard of your times. I dare say we have no reason for doubts," replied the locket haughtily. However something about it rang false to Harry's ear.

"No. You got where you did, got through Hogwarts, by being cautious." Harry fleshed out his theory as he spoke, remembering what he had learned of Voldemort's past from the pensieve lessons. "Now he's arrogant to the point of foolishness…making mistakes. You'd have known better…but he carved you out. Deliberately…I didn't even know that was possible. He... what? Thought you were a bad thing?"

"Just because you can't comprehend our reasoning does not make us foolish," the locket snarled. "However, you are…partially correct. I was detrimental, unnecessary. We got to a point in our power where pathetic muggle imperfections like fear were useless," it continued, calmer now. Harry didn't doubt that he detected a note of shame in the later part of the statement, though he didn't think anyone without his prior knowledge would have heard it.

"I think you protest too much," he noted cheekily. He never heard the reply.

Pain seared in his scar and he was standing in a dark room similar to the great hall at Hogwarts. A Death Eater cowered before him. Rage flooded him, a desire to _hurt_something. _"Crucio,"_When he lifted the curse, he asked rhetorically, "Do you have any idea how much this will ssset our timetable back?" His voice was like shadows sliding over steel. "Bring me Luciusss."

Harry opened his eyes, once again himself. He looked at the locket. It was on the ground and closed now, though he didn't think he'd closed it.

Going into the tent he shook Hermione and Ron awake. "V-you-know-who is mad, like livid. He asked for Lucuis," Harry explained. He only realized he was shaking when Hermione put a hand on his shoulder. "I could be wrong, but I don't think this new assassination was in his plans."

"Well we shouldn't make assumptions, but I'd tentatively agree. Lucius is his man in the ministry, after all. It would make sense that You-Know-Who would find him responsible," Hermione agreed.

"Do you think the Order was behind it?" asked Ron.

"I doubt it. It's not our style, but that would be the best case scenario." Hermione replied after considering for a moment.

"Well we can't do anything about it right now. I'll take watch," said Ron matter-of-factly. Harry couldn't help but notice that Ron seemed to take an extra couple of steps around him, as though wary of getting too close.

"Oh hang on." Harry remembered suddenly. Ron hesitated as though he'd rather keep walking, but couldn't find an excuse. Harry quickly retrieved the locket from his pocket and handed it over. Ron took it and hurried out. Harry looked up to see Hermione looking at him strangely.

"Why was that not in the mokeskin skin?" she asked, accusation in her tone.

"Oh. I was trying to see if I could get it open. Something to keep me awake, ya know," he lied with only a second's hesitation. That was getting way too easy.

"You shouldn't do that alone. It could be dangerous," she scolded, but she let it drop. They laid down and took their turn sleeping.

After several days of boredom, hunger and horcrux-induced animosity, they'd had a rather bitter argument with Ron over possible horcrux hiding places. Though he said nothing, when Harry was explaining why Hogwarts was a prime hiding place he again felt a small worm of pity for riddle. The same one that he'd felt when Dumbledore had been giving him his lessons, only magnified by what he'd since learned. He found afterward that he wasn't entirely sure that his anger at Ron had been his own_. Maybe it was, maybe it simply wasn't on your own behalf,_ hissed a traitorous voice in the back of his skull.

It was that night that he realized he'd again forgotten about Kraxil. He thought on it for the length of his watch but couldn't come up with a plan that would be remotely workable. Hopefully the snake would be able to keep himself hidden.

Over the ensuing weeks, the tension between them increased. This was not just thanks to the futility of their search, but also the scraps of news they got. Usually through the overly laudatory _Prophet, _sometimes from other sources, but always in the same vein. They had mixed feelings about the first major news they had gotten:

War Hero Jack Ferguson Takes Over as Minister of Magic

_Third generation auror Jack Ferguson, who was responsible for the imprisonment of five Death Eaters following the attack on the ministry two years ago, has gained the position of Minister of Magic. He was voted in via the martial law general election exemption of 1772 by a 35-13 vote of the Wizengamot. Wizarding Britain is overjoyed to have a strong and storied auror take the reigns in this time of crisis._

Hermione had expressed distaste at the lack of a true election but they had agreed that it was far from the worst thing that could have happened. Several days later it was followed by:

Yet Another Attempt on MOM's Life Prompts Action.

_After an attempt to assassinate the new Minister a mere two days into his term, MOM Ferguson has appointed a special cadre of the Fackelträgers as his personal body guards. For those of you who do not follow foreign affairs, the Fackelträgers are an independant German based auror force that hunts dark wizards, tries to stop all misuses of magic and provides aid to any nation that requests it. As this was obviously an inside job, several former members of the ministry, presumed sympathizers have been removed from their posts and detained for questioning by the Fackelträgers._

The provided list of dark sympathizers had about thirty wizards, including a couple of Notts, Macnair, and a Yaxley, along with two Longbottoms, Ron's dad and many more with no apparent rhyme or reason.

"Oh," Hermione breathed. She had flipped to another page announcing the repeal of the muggleborn registrations. "This isn't good."

"Dad," Ron whimpered, completely oblivious to the conversation. Hermione wrapped an arm around him.

Harry looked at her in shock but she quickly continued. "I mean the repeal is good but they're just switching the witch hunt to purebloods instead of actually going after the people responsible." Harry was about to retort that purebloods _were_ responsible when he looked at Ron, white-faced and drinking his morning tea with a shaking hand. Harry held his tongue.

After half an hour of uncomfortable silence, Ron had stood shakily. His eyes glistened as he spoke. "I h-have to go to my family. Make sure..." his gravelly voice trailed off and he disapparated without another word. Hermione had been angry until they switched possession of the locket. Then she'd wept.

LVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLV

Voldemort stalked past the ostentatious decorations and into the general armory. The attempt to _imperio_Ferguson had been thwarted by his new bodyguards. Contrary to what had been released to the gullible masses, the Fackelträgers had been there in secret from the start. He couldn't believe that the moron had actually been dumb enough to involve them. Unless, of course, he was merely an agent himself. The whole thing, including Pius' assassination, reeked of Nikovich. The man, rich and powerful as he was, seemed to lack the long view of his father. On that note, he would need to find a way to get better intelligence from the Ministry until he could reclaim control.

Draco and the four members of his new squad were donning their chosen armour and other accoutrements. Normally he would consider the task of briefing—and putting a little fear into the fresh recruits—beneath him. It usually fell to Snape or Lucius. However, even if either were available, the boy was far too comfortable with both for it to have the proper effect. Belletrix and Fenrir he flatly didn't trust not to damage the goods and no one else really had the reputation to create the right effect. Regardless, this was an important mission. Thus he could deign to give it a personal touch.

One month. One month his people had been imprisoned: he needed their numbers. Not to mention the many others that had join them in Azkaban merely because they were purebloods. Now _there_was a recruiting tool. He laughed coldly at Vega's lack of strategy. Draco looked up and fell to his knees in a bow so quickly he was vaguely surprised it didn't break them. He held his face expressionless. That never got old, although it was rather more satisfying when it was a powerful wizard like Dolohov or Snape.

"You are aware of what I require?" he asked.

"We are to raid Hogsmeade for the purpose of distraction, my lord," Lucius' whelp replied.

"You have not contacted anyone outside of your squad?" he asked, though he knew the boy had not left the castle.

"N-no my lord," he answered, and legilimency bore it out.

He nodded. "You will arrive at 1:15 am." Orders given, he strode out, returning to his chambers to prepare.

He had planned this breakout for two weeks, he would leave nothing to chance. That meant going personally. His blood sang with anticipation of the battle as he donned his dementor's robe over his heavily enchanted standard ones. His wand ever in its holster, he slid his stave through the two leather rings on his back, charmed to hold it. It rose over his shoulder like the hilt of a great sword. Salazar knew the Fackelträgers would have staves; it was as good a time as any to use it. He retrieved a black crystal torch and strode out onto the grounds, passing the covered cage housing the little snake that had been recovered from Potter's safe house. He had already gleaned any useful information from it, but he suspected it may still have a use. The boy seemed to have a strangely strong bond with it.

Arriving on the grounds, he surveyed his troops. Two squads: one to be led by Dolohov, the other by Bellatrix. They would apparate into position and wait while he apparated to Grizedale and flew in with a cadre of dementors.

"Remember, kill no prisoners…yes even the blood traitors," he added when the statement was greeted by a murmuring hiss. "Perhaps they will change their tune now that they have seen what the muggle lover's actual aims are." They calmed slightly at that and there were a few stifled chuckles. "Are any other clarifications necessary?" he asked in a tone that said they'd better not be. "Take your positions." He apparated away last.

Half an hour later, Voldemort touched down on Azkaban with a handful of dementors. Dolohov's group had started creating chaos on the grounds and were dueling rather too many Fackelträgers. He paused a moment to make sure Bellatrix was assaulting the front gate, before taking his crew to the side gate otherwise known as the 'corpse' gate. It took several seconds longer than he'd anticipated to break the locks and wards. They had apparently heightened security recently. Not enough, of course.

Once they'd breached the door, he was satisfied to hear the sounds of battle near the main gate. He had set it up so that he would not get close enough to affect his own people with the dementors until the last moment. Moving along the narrow halls, he began unlocking every cell he came to after a quick check of occupants. No need to release certain enemies, after all. To those that were his men he handed out spare wands that he'd brought, with instructions to move back along the corridors and kill only Fackelträgers. Essentially covering his advance. The dementors would sense if any came too close. He moved relatively unmolested until on turning a corner he found half a dozen Fackelträgers.

They quailed before his dementors, casting retreating patroni. As he had expected, they didn't distinguish him from his 'companions' under his robe. He laid into them, dropping half with killing curses before they could recover from their complete surprise. Confronted with staves that could cast dual patroni, his dementors had now been driven back, but he retreated in step with them. A conflagration curse roared towards him. _Why was it always fire lately?_ He stepped smoothly behind a dementor, who of course didn't even notice it. Stepping diagonally so he was on the other side and ahead of the convenient dementor with his stave already out, he countered.

_"Furca__Fulgur!"_a blue bolt leapt from his stave and broke apart in a spray. All three of his targets fell. He cast killing curses at them all as he walked by. Why take chances? He then sheathed his wand, which he'd switched to his left hand to draw the stave. He grabbed his stave two-handed. At his mental command the bonding charm deactivated. _That was something they didn't put in the mass produced ones,_ he thought with a viscous grin. Blackthorn half in his left hand and red oak in his right, he moved on.

As he turned the next corner he realized something was wrong. There were far more Fackelträgers than there should have been. As the spells started flying he realized something else. They were aiming! With the torch strapped to his shoulder they shouldn't be able to see anything. Regardless Bellatrix's squad must be almost to this part of the prison, they could pin them in the middle. He spun and fought, dodging behind dementors while timing his retreats and presses with them. He aimed his spells high and used mass area curses to avoid their battle armour.

This was far more intense than he'd anticipated. He should have been overwhelmed by sheer numbers minutes ago, but the narrow corridors made their numbers more of a detriment than a boon. His greater mobility, thanks to using charmed robes instead of true armour and moving cover in the form of dementors, also helped to shift the odds. Still he was now having to counter patroni as well, and he'd already lost two dementors.

Sweat slicked his hands and rolled down his back. He felt the strain in his muscles vaguely under the rush of adrenaline. He blocked a curse, then stepped behind a dementor and watched it get pinned to the wall by a rhino patronus. He raised the red oak a mere millisecond too slow and was flung back against the wall with a bludgeoning curse. Stunned, he raised the red oak, but through the half formed shield he saw the last two Fackelträgers fall.

He got to his feet as quickly as he could as the two death eaters advanced with their wands out . He would kneel before no one. Bellatrix's face was a contortion of rage and pure ecstatic blood-lust, her partner by contrast fairly reeked of fear.

"Move!" he snapped. They moved.

When they broke out onto the grounds, they found half a dozen Fackelträgers alternately shooting at shadows and dueling the rescued Death Eaters. They took them by surprise and easily killed most of them, capturing two alive. He took a quick count of the rescuees: twenty-five with at least ten his own. At his order, en masse they cleared the apparation wards. Voldemort flew, ostensibly as a show of power to the rescuees. In truth there was no way he could walk more than a few steps without showing his fatigued, beaten state, however slightly.

He apparated directly to his chambers. There he downed a dose of quick-acting painkiller, courtesy of Snape, before he apparated back onto the grounds. He strode almost effortlessly into the great hall, feeling the potion work as he walked. Upon entering he took another quick headcount, this time to appraise their losses: too many. Factually, it was a strategic failure, however he spun it for the Death Eaters.

"You served well tonight. We will wait a moment while our_ guests _are taken to their new rooms," he smiled a viper's smile as Laxton and Mulciber led the two prisoners to the dungeon.

When the pair returned alone he continued his speech. "As those of you who have served me long, well know and as those new to the ranks have now seen: We take care our own. No prison can hold us, just as no law can restrain forever the natural magic which courses through our pure veins," he paused a moment, feeling his audience's fervor. They were still running on adrenaline from the mission. He could have whipped them to a frenzy of blood-lust if he chose. Not tonight though, still he relished the power a moment before continuing.

"We must however remain cautious. The Fackelträgers have earned their reputation in much the same way that you have. They are a far more ruthless and skilled opponent than the Ministry ever was. They have nearly unlimited resources and when we inevitably crush them it will be a victory not just for our cause in Britain but for the whole of Europe," cheers and howls rang out.

"You may go to your homes, so that you may be ready when next you are called to serve," he dismissed. "Bellatrix, Dolohov, stay." The others filed away. The two named followed him to a small office he used for private meetings. He could sense their fear even without turning around. When he did look at them he said nothing, letting the moment drag. _Let them sweat._

"What went wrong?" His voice was calm but a threat of torture underlaid every word.

"We were attacked from behind," said Bellatrix. At the same time, Dolohov said, "Half my squad fled." Voldemort repressed the urge to sigh. _What in Salazar's name..._

"Dolohov firssst," he ordered, fingering his wand.

" A-a-as I said, everything was going well... then those Germans started casting insane stuff from those logs they carried a-and…They could see us despite the black crystal. Half our number just fled. A pity; it was a bracing fight." The last sounded almost wistful, although Dolohov was obviously favoring half a dozen injuries. "We couldn't fight them directly, so most of us hid and sniped. Part of them broke off but the rest had us pinned down."

He waited a moment and Bellatrix took up the story. "That was when they took us from behind. As you know, they decimated our squad. Only Laxton and I survived." The pride and disdain practically oozed from her. He didn't need the legilimency he was using to know what she was thinking. _You see what I risked? My prowess in battle? Favour me. Favour me over him!_

"Your persssonal conduct during the battle appears to have exemplary, both of you." He waited until they visibly relaxed, then he dropped the other shoe. "However, Dolohov, you know that you are responsible for the conduct of your men. Bellatrix, go to the infirmary." He turned his gaze back to Dolohov as the door shut behind her. "You may join her when your due is paid." Dolohov took the first curse stoically. Then the screams rang out. Voldemort kept the session short and Dolohov was soon off to lick his wounds in the infirmary.

Voldemort went to his wing and apparated to Loch Lomond, taking down the wards as quickly as possible. He entered, replaced the defenses, and stripped off the dementor's cloak, torch and other items. He locked them in the vault before going into the bedroom. He didn't even bother tending his wounds. He knew none of them were too serious, though had it not been for the charms on his robes he'd have had internal injuries. It took a fair amount of his remaining restraint to lower himself to the bed instead of simply collapsing. Every inch of his exhausted body was aching. He reached over to the night stand, grabbing and drinking a replenishing potion. He carefully rested the stave next to him on the bed and fell into a restless sleep.

A/n To understand who Nikovich is please read Rising in the east. If you do not wish to just know that he is a 20-something darkwizard who went to durmstrang and operates in eastern Europe.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N sorry this took so long. Thanks to psycholeopard. I own nothing. If the time frame is a little unclear this starts with Harry's pov on the night of the Azkaban raid.

Harry watched from behind while a six year old Riddle looked out the window in his room at the orphanage. It was night, but the yard was lit with lanterns. Bodies were being moved from a small shed on the grounds to an open grave. Riddle left his room and went outside. He walked up to the adults currently lowering the bodies all into the same grave.

"Whatcha doin?" he asked.

"Oh shit. You're not supposed to be here! Go back to your room," said a burly man with a gravelly voice.

"But I wanna know whatcha doing? What happen' to 'em?" repeated Riddle.

"Look. These kids, they got sick and died so we are burying them," said another man with a sigh. "It's natural. It happens to everyone. Don't be sad."

"I'm not sad," Riddle replied as the man led him back to his room and closed the curtains. When he left, Riddle peeked out through the curtains. Their rooms would be filled as soon as the quarantine was lifted. In a year or two, when the grass had regrown, there would be nothing to mark the spot, nothing to say they had existed at all. The boy swallowed hard and Harry felt fear creep down his spine.

_That will not be me._ Harry felt the words that were not words so much as intense, image-laden feelings fill his head. _I will not be cast aside. I will leave my mark on this world_. Determination accompanied those words in such force that Harry could practically feel the course of history bend to it. _Somehow,_ and the determination faded to fear and horror.

Harry watched now as a slightly older Riddle sat in the Hogwarts library surrounded by papers and books. Family archives, English history, ancient bloodlines, student records... even old Daily Prophets. He rested his head on his fist, eyes closed. A_ muggle, a filthy muggle and a witch so weak she doesn't deserve the name. Abraxas was right. My blood doesn't hold a candle to ancient houses like the Malfoys and Blacks.__So much for being special; so much for leaving my mark, _he ranted mentally, making Harry's head ache.

_How'd Abraxas even find out, and why'd he have to tell all the second and third years? I was no threat to him._ Harry's eyes blurred. _Because he could, because why not, because it amused him. That's how it works. You know this, you've done it,_ Riddle argued with himself. _If only they were so easy to scare as those little orphans._He sighed. Then again most of his year seemed sort of moronic. _I don't feel like he was an inferior breed_. Harry watched him stand wearily. _Perhaps if I studied harder, read into wizarding history and theory, maybe I can make up for the deficit in my education and blood._

Riddle looked like he did in the diary. He walked up to a gravestone in a secluded part of a cemetery. It read:

_The Reverend Samuel McNeil_

_Devoted follower of our Lord and Savior._

_Loving brother and mentor._

_1885-1942_

He cast a spell and dirt flew from the grave. He levitated the corpse inside and inspected it, then cast it aside to partially shatter against a grave.

"No, Nooo!" he screamed. Raw magic lashed around him, destroying gravestones and annihilating trees. Harry felt cheated and enraged, self disgust and bitter disappointment overwhelmed his mind like an undertow. He also felt his own fear at the raw power of his future enemy, even without refining experience. Finally, Riddle sank to the ground exhausted, panting with exertion. Harry felt loneliness, abandonment, fear and a dozen other subtle things join the tangled mess in his head.

Slowly Harry noticed his breathing slow, becoming more controlled. His shoulders shook occasionally with hitches. He watched as the boy wept silently. An occasional sniff or shake was all that betrayed his weakness to Harry's vantage point. Momentarily forgetting who the teen was, he closed the short distance between them and tried to lay a hand on the boy's shaking shoulder. He grasped air. He stood next to the teen as though offering moral support, although he knew the other had no idea he was 'there'. After an interminable amount of time the breathing returned to slow controlling breaths. The boy sniffed, wiped his face, took a few more even breaths, then stood. His wand out in a hand that only shook slightly, he cast spells to dry and clean his robes and hands. Harry saw the panorama fading as Riddle walked away.

When Harry awoke to a worried Hermione, he was disgusted with himself for his instinctive desire to comfort the monster in his dreams.

"Thank goodness, I've been trying to wake you for ten minutes!" Her voice was pitched higher than usual.

"M'sry," he apologized.

"You were dreaming about You-Know-Who," she stated.

"His past," Harry admitted, bitter disgust still on his tongue. He wasn't sure whether or not it was his own or residue from the dream. Then he realized that it was coming fresh across the link and shuddered, pushing it to the back of his mind.

"That's never happened before. Should we worry?" Her face said she'd already come to a conclusion about that. Harry realized with a moment of horror what this might foretell and scanned his memory of the dreams.

"No… anyone who he could take revenge on, he already has," he replied, relaxing.

"Revenge?" she asked, confused.

"Yeah, it's complicated," he skirted around the question, not quite sure why he didn't want to explain. Maybe it was that he feared the ensuing discussion about what else he'd kept hidden. She opened her mouth to respond then closed it and moved to pack up with a frown.

They spent the next several weeks wandering uneventfully. Then one night camping in the middle of nowhere-forest number fourteen-they heard branches breaking outside the camp's wards. Hermione quickly retrieved the extendable ears from her pack and gave one to Harry.

"They are here!" snarled a low, male voice which Harry found vaguely familiar.

"Then why can't we find them?" asked another.

"Perhaps they warded their location," replied a third calmer voice, which was also vaguely familiar to Harry.

"They're only foals," snorted the first. Harry grinned from ear to ear and got up, walking toward the sound.

"No Harry, wait!" Hermione cried out, but he was past caring. He was just so glad to finally have found some allies.

"I wouldn't underestimate them," replied the calm voice as Harry left the camp and crossed into the tree line.

"Lumos," he lit his wand. A few seconds later he was surrounded by five centaurs. He recognized Firenze (the calm voice), Bane (the one who insisted they were there) and Ronan (who hadn't spoken). The other two were a young dapple-coated male and a dainty— for a centaur —bay female.

"Ah! Harry Potter!" Firenze cantered up and dipped his head to him. Harry caught the looks of disgust on Bane and the young male.

"It's good to see you well. We have some things which we must tell you." Harry heard something odd in the tone, and looking more closely he realized that the centaur was covered in half healed wounds.

"Come with me," Harry said.

"One moment," replied Firenze. He trotted a little ways away and conferred with the other centaurs. Firenze returned shuffling his hooves awkwardly.

"Ronan and Camber will stay here and keep watch. The three of us will come with you," he said, dipping his head.

"Uh... ok sure," Harry said.

"You can bring them some food," he added, taking in their visible ribs and paler-than-remembered complexion.

Firenze's face relaxed slightly. "Ah, thank you," he said, an undue amount of gratitude in his tone.

A few minutes later, he settled by the fire with Firenze, Bane and the young filly, Fois. Bane and Fois wolfed down the meager fare. Firenze ate slightly slower, but Harry could see the hunger in his eyes and knew he must have been trying to be polite.

When they were done, Firenze looked at Harry and he saw the centaur's eyes were bloodshot and shadowed.

"Two weeks ago, we were approached by an envoy from the Ministry," he began. "This has happened before in our history, though rarely in the last fifty or so years. It never bodes well. We were told to go live on a designated section of land. That night they brought portkeys for us to use. We of course said no. They responded that if we didn't comply, it would be an act of aggression. We took a quick vote and the answer was still no." He paused for breath. When he spoke again Harry thought his eyes might have been shining from more than firelight.

"Where they came from I don't know, but suddenly they were all around us. We fought hard." Some pride entered his voice. "I know we dropped a few with arrows, but there was only s-so much we could do against wands." He paused again with a shaking breath.

"They killed Mangorian and many more besides, we retreated." He lowered his head. "With the help of Professors Sprout and McGonagall, we escaped and regrouped in a nearby forest. There were only ten of us th…there. We split up and have since been looking for you. We haven't been able to contact the Order, though I'm sure McGonagall has. We have come across other centaurs and they all tell the same story: every colony attacked at the same time. I regret to inform you that many of our number are turning to the dark. The lesser of two evils, I suppose." He looked away but Harry saw the resignation and shame. He had probably been thinking about doing the same. Harry felt a pang of abandonment, but he couldn't really blame the centaur for taking care of his own.

Firenze swallowed hard and turned from the fire. "We must go, but before we do Bane has a message for you." He looked pointedly at the other centaur. Harry looked over as well and realized that Fois was wiping tears from her face.

"The stars say that there are friends to meet in places you've been. People wait for you who you must find, one under Mars, the other bearing knowledge. The stars don't get much more specific than that, but even a wizard should be able to make good use of it if he cares to listen." With a snort, Bane turned, kicking up dirt as he sped into the night.

"I'm sorry about that. He…" Firenze began.

"No, it's okay. Maybe if wizards didn't make themselves so dislikable…." Harry interrupted. He grimaced, hating the ministry and prejudice and the whole damn world. He saw the other centaurs off and returned to face Hermione's silent disapproval for his leaving the camp.

Since they had no new leads on horcruxes, he and Hermione spent the next week cautiously visiting places that they used to frequent. When Harry slipped into the Hog's Head under the invisibility cloak, he finally found what they were looking for. Harry almost broke cover on seeing Ron sitting at a table drinking a butterbeer.

"It's me. Go outside and prepare to apparate," he whispered as he walked by. A minute later they were back at their most recent camp. Harry grinned from ear to ear while Hermione cried and practically assaulted Ron with a hug.

"Bloody hell, I've been looking all over for you guys. I thought you might be…well I'm glad you're okay," Ron said with a shaky smile.

"What's happened? Where have you been? Is your dad okay?" asked Hermione before Harry could respond.

"A lot, everywhere, and you wouldn't believe me if I told you. What about you?" he responded happily.

"About the same but let's start with you," she said, grinning with Harry.

"Well as you know, I went home and it was bollocks*. Mom was panicking, we had to keep Ginny at school to keep her safe. It was…bad. Anyway, after a few weeks we were kind of settling down. Mom hadn't stopped trying to appeal to the ministry but she wasn't getting anywhere. So all of a sudden, Dad just shows up in the middle of the night! He claims that You-Know-Who broke into Azkaban and just released almost everyone. Just like that!" He sounded astonished.

"It's not a bad PR tactic," Hermione said thoughtfully.

"Well, we spent a couple hours talking. He said the aurors ,— the few that were left anyway —asked him to wear something called a suppression collar." Hermione gave a little gasp. "They said that as a pureblood he had to if he wanted to keep working at the Ministry. He said he refused and into Azkaban he went as a You-Know-Who sympathizer. Anyway after a bit he told us to run." Ron held up an issue of the Daily Prophet. It had the faces of the wizards who had apparently been broken out with the headline.

BREAK OUT AT AZKABAN

_Ten-Thousand Galleon Reward for the Capture of These__Dangerous Dark Wizards_

The article went on to say: _Anyone aiding these fugitives will be subject to their punishment as well._

"Things are getting bad, Harry." He swallowed. "People are wearing these suppression things, owls are being monitored, and people are leaving the country. The Order has more or less disbanded since most of us can't find each other. No one has any idea where Lupin or Tonks are. It's…"

"Bad?" Harry finished for him.

"Yeah," Ron said with a small grin. He handed them a pamphlet. "This was published about a week ago, but the last time I saw Tonks she said she'd already been forced to register, and that was right after I went home."

New Policies to Safeguard Loyal British Wizards.

To protect the wizarding public from the unnaturally powerful and potentially insidious influence of disloyal purebloods, the following measures will be enacted until the end of the war:

All wizards/witches must make an unbreakable vow of loyalty to the Ministry of Magic and to the laws governing proper use of magic.

All pure-blood witches/wizards—defined as the product of two untainted magical parents— must receive an equalizing collar to moderate their magic to normal levels.

All mutations -parseltongues, metamorphmagi, seers etc.- must sign up for registration and treatment.

_All tainted creatures - werewolves, vampires, veela etc.- must sign up for registration and danger mitigation treatments. _

_Non-human subjects of Britain must receive an emissary and liaise with the ministry in order to remove any danger caused by their population and ensure their loyalty. Compliance will be the duty of the emissary._

_Failure to comply by the end of the month will constitute treason. By order of War Minister Furguson and Wizengamot._

"Add to that what the centaurs said and this must have gone into effect well before they published," said Harry, sickened.

"Centaurs?" Ron sighed with a scowl. They quickly caught him up to date.

That night on watch, Harry opened up the locket and recounted recent events.

"I hope you're happy," he said when he was done. "Now your precious purebloods are on the ropes with the rest of us and for what?"

"This was never what I wanted," the locket said, its tone cold. "Yes, those in power can do as they will, however…some judgment is required. The wizarding community loses much in the estrangement of other races. Katals alone if they were not banned would be almost non-existent in Britain because of it. So much knowledge would be lost, it is unacceptable." Harry wondered again what a katal was and made a mental note to ask the locket when he had less pressing concerns.

"Yet it's the direct result of your actions. You made people so desperate that they would sacrifice their freedom just to be safe," Harry replied in disgust.

"If they choose safety over freedom, then they deserve what they get," he sneered. "However, the magic that will be lost would effect all wizards, not just this dross. The Fackelträgers have a stiff grasp on western Europe as it is." There was resignation in the tone. It startled Harry, it seemed so incongruous coming from that face.

He thought for a moment. "These Fackelträgers …what do you know about them?" he asked.

The projection shrugged. "I know they're not a good thing, bent on control and power at the cost of everything else. They are behind most of the more draconian laws in Western Europe, both on use of magic and on muggle secrecy. They've existed since the days of witch burning, sweeping in to offer 'assistance' to nations in times of trouble, and then make a power play whenever a country or ruler is weak enough to accept. Since Grindlewald was defeated, no one will let them within fifty kilometers of the border, but most of the damage was long since done. For all intents they rule most of the wizarding nations west of Germany," he finished. Harry thought he heard a trace of dejection in the voice and a wave of worry coursed through him. He couldn't tell if it was his own or just the horcrux's effect, or both.

"So they're powerful?" he asked though he knew the answer.

"Untouchable, and well resourced, too," the locket replied with finality.

Harry knew the dread he felt now was his own. "How do we fight them?" he asked.

"You don't." The locket shut itself. Harry was left alone in the dark with his thoughts.

It was mid-November. A full moon glinted off the frost and a light dusting of snow had started to fall in their latest camp. They had still had no luck finding horcruxes or ways to destroy them, and after the initial elation of having Ron back their moods had soured again.

Harry was relieving Ron on watch at midnight when they heard the sounds of cheering and saw firelight in the distance. He woke Hermione to tell her.

"We should check it out," Harry said. "I'll go under the cloak. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, break camp and get as far away as you can."

"Or we could go with you," said Ron, exasperated.

"Only two of us can fit under the cloak. You know that," he replied.

"I'll go. You guard the horcrux," said Hermione, and with that they walked toward the firelight. The sounds of cheering got louder and after several minutes of picking their way through the forest by wand-light they came upon a group of robed wizards— perhaps thirty or forty —yelling and shouting. Under the noise of the crowd they could hear the muted sounds of a struggle, some creature or creatures snarling and growling as though from a long way away. Harry and Hermione stopped in tandem, knowing they couldn't get much closer without risking tripping an alarm. Harry signaled Hermione to wait, left the cloak with her, and started to climb a nearby tree for a better vantage point. When he was fifteen or so feet up, he stopped and looked towards the light. What he saw made his hands go slack and he had to clench them quickly before he fell.

The crowd was gathered around a shimmering blue dome which must have carried some sort of sound dampening ability. Inside, two werewolves howled, snarled and bit at each other with bestial abandon. Around the dome lay a dozen cages where more wolves threw themselves against the walls, struggling to get out.

Harry watched in horror as the fight came to an end, one wolf fell and the other continued mauling it. One wizard in gold robes threw stunners through the dome at both participants and the winner fell unconscious as well. The dome disappeared and the gold wizard, accompanied by two in silver robes, approached the fallen fighters. All three had their wands out. The gold one clasped silver hobbles on the 'winner' and bent over the other for a moment. He stood and levitated both bodies to a cage and locked them in. He woke the winner, who then proceeded to munch happily on his less fortunate opponent. Harry felt bile rise in his throat and tried to fight the nausea.

"For our next match we have Sparky versus Thor. Please place your bets before the one minute warning," Gold cried out. Harry watched as he and the two silver robes went to a cage and stunned the occupant. Gold then opened the cage door and a silver robe levitated him to the open circle. The silver then stood guard over the werewolf while Gold and his other companion repeated the process. Then the three wizards left the circle and the dome went back up.

"One minute warning," called Gold as Harry climbed back down. He rejoined Hermione.

"Let's go," he said curtly. She opened her mouth to question him but quickly shut it, realizing the prudence of getting safely away first. They made their way back to camp where they found Ron pacing, his jaw clenched. Once there, Harry filled Hermione and Ron in on what he'd seen. Ron's face went white and Hermione's contorted as though she were about to either cry or vomit.

"We can't do anything tonight," she rasped, already back to analysis and planning. "The werewolves themselves will be as much of a danger as the wizards."

"We'll have to go by day," replied Harry. That they were going to do something about the sick entertainment hadn't needed to be discussed.

"They probably go underground after the full moon, so that will only give us two days to work with," Hermione noted, lining up the facts.

"We should take turns tonight scouting, get as much information as we can," said Harry.

"Right. I'll take first watch, then relieve Ron on guard and you can take a turn scouting while he sleeps," Hermione decided.

Harry wanted to protest. He didn't want Hermione to have to see what he'd seen, but he saw her logic. He doubted he could've dissuaded her anyway. He didn't think he'd be able to sleep, however he fell almost immediately into a deep nightmare-wracked slumber.

Hermione woke him at their standard shift change. She looked at him with haunted eyes, but her jaw was clenched resolutely in her 'S.P.E.W face'. She handed him a paper. He took a quick look and saw that it described the locations of guards, how long the average fight lasted and how long breaks were. She had also noted that the crowd had dispersed after the last fight at two-thirty-five.

He was about to leave when she stopped him. "Hold on." She pulled out her wand. "_longe__conspectu,"_ she said pointing at his eyes.

He felt pressure behind them like a sinus headache and warmth. When it faded, he realized his vision was much sharper. He blinked a couple of times, then removed his glasses which had no effect. He smiled.

"Thanks," he said, putting his glasses away for safe keeping.

"It should last six hours," she replied with a small smile of her own. It didn't reach her eyes.

Harry picked his way back to the tree and watched. There were six guards that he could see, verifying what Hermione had written. Gold and the two silver robed wizards were also there. Not much happened, and he caught himself almost nodding off a couple of times. At five o'clock he saw trio doling meat to the caged werewolves. The pieces looked like deer but were too large. He cursed Hermione for improving his sight when he realized it was actually centaur, so 'rare' the fur was still on.

He looked away for the blissfully short time that the creatures ate, trying to remind himself that the humans these werewolves were had no idea what they were doing. Things went quiet again until the moon sank. The wolves transformed back, screaming, biting and thrashing against the cages in pain. He saw something that made his veins pound with anger even while his heart seemed to stop. Sitting in the cage of the werewolf that had 'won' the first match he'd seen... was Lupin.


	9. Chapter 9

A/n Sorry about the long hiatus. I hope you guys continue to enjoy this. Please R&amp;R, constructive criticism welcome.

This chapter is dedicated to Product Of A Sick Society

Dawn broke, frosty and glistening, as Harry made his way back to the camp. Hermione nodded to him as he walked past, to enter the tent and wake Ron. He shook Ron's shoulder, his friend's eyes snapped open and his other hand grabbed Harry's wrist like a vise. For a moment Harry saw fear in his eyes before it faded into recognition.

"Mhm sorry, bad dream," he rasped.

"It's okay, guess it's mine turn anyway," replied Harry with a forced laugh. He had resolved not to tell them about the centaur meat but the image was burned into his eyes.

They gathered around the fire pit, and Hermione renewed the heating charms on their clothes. She got out some mushrooms that she'd gathered recently and started spicing them with pepper, chili powder and other things from her bag. Harry swallowed, and took a deep breath.

"We need to do something about the wolves," he ground out.

"I thought that had been established," Ron replied.

"They have Lupin," he stated flatly. Hermione squeaked and Ron drew a sharp breath.

"Af-…after breakfast. After breakfast w-w-we'll come up with plan," she said eyes shining. "Don't worry we'll get him," her S.P.E.W face was on despite the tears.

Hermione and Ron ate while he picked at his own mushrooms, and brooded. Maybe it was just locket he was now wearing, but he couldn't think of any way the situation could end pleasantly.

Either they fought the Fackelträgers and lost or by some miracle they won. He wouldn't claim to be a strategic genius, but even he knew they couldn't fight the war on two fronts. He wasn't idealistic enough to believe that whatever remained of them would be able to face the death eaters after that. Especially considering that others, like the centaurs, would be turning to the dark in response. The alternative of letting the Fackelträgers deal with Voldemort, while somewhat tempting, would end with them in power; which returned to the problem of deposing them only then they'd be firmly seated.

"Well?" asked Hermione. Harry started and looked around.

"Huh?"

"The plan?" she huffed, brow furrowed.

"Oh yeah, of course sorry," he tried to order his thoughts.

"It's okay," she said quietly, squeezing his shoulder.

"Uh I guess we go take a look around, try to take out the guards as quietly as possible and get to the cages," he offered.

"Maybe open the cages first?" Hermione suggested. "They could help fight and since the wolves don't have wands I doubt they are magically protected," Harry considered.

"Okay, you guys go for the guards, I'll take the cage," he decided.

"Let Hermione take the cages," Ron spoke for the first time. "You're the better duelist and if there is magical protection she can probably get through faster," he continued bluntly.

"True enough," Harry shrugged. There was silence for a few minutes; the image of centaur, extra-rare glued itself to his brain again.

"Shall we go now?" Hermione asked, again shaking him from his dark reverie.

"Right," he stood stiffly, feeling the weight of responsibility. He could barely believe he'd been celebrating his 18th birthday less than six months ago.

Harry made sure he had the locket and Hermione shrunk her bag, scepter included. Shortly the three of them were on their way, wands out and concealments on, to where they had seen the werewolves the night before. Hermione halted him with a hand on his chest and pointed up the tree, which they had used as a vantage point. She quickly scurried up since his vision had returned to normal. She came back down half a minute later.

"There seem to only be two guards," she reported.

"Nice," hissed Ron and Harry smiled grimly. They might actually manage this. They spread out around the clearing. Harry tried to keep count in his head-

'151, 152, 153,' When he reached two-hundred they would attack, '162, 163, 16...'

Across the clearing he saw a faint red glow hit Ron's guard.

"Bollocks! Stupify!" he snarled, stunning his guard before he could raise an alarm. He ran into the clearing, hoping that Hermione was well on her way to the cages under the invisibility cloak. He sprinted in and took his place by Lupin's cage to guard Hermione while she hopefully worked the lock. Looking at Lupin curled sleeping in the corner, naked, the cage reeking of blood and human filth, he swallowed down bile, dry heaving slightly. Then, realizing that the man would probably freak a bit when he woke, he pointed his wand.

"Silencio," He whispered. The cage door fell open and he went inside grabbing his former Professor. Lupin started awake with a silent snarl then blinked a few times and shook his head. He mouthed silent words but Harry thought he saw the lips form 'dream'. He felt his eyes prick as he shook his head 'no'. He poked the man hard then himself hoping to convey his realness. Signaling for silence he whispered.

"Recuperabit,"

"Thanks," Lupin rasped. Harry tried to avoid his hollow eyes. Exiting the cage he saw that Hermione had gathered another two men and Ron was finishing silencing the ones still caged. Ron looked over and pointed to the tent where presumably the trio and the four remaining guards were sleeping. Harry nodded and followed. They slunk over, for just a moment Harry envisioned just torching the tent, they deserved it well enough, but no. He shook his head violently. That was just the locket talking. They slid through the flap.

"Stupify," They said in unison. Harry had tried to make it a whisper but anger raised his voice. Even as the red light hit his and Ron's targets another man bolted upright and cast a blue jet of light at him. He ducked and responded instinctively with a shield while Ron stunned another guard. The blue light ricocheted off the shield, then the man was yelling and the other occupants of the tent were casting spells. Harry and Ron ran for their lives.

"Impedimenta!" Shouted Harry spinning around long enough to aim then dodging away from a bolt of gold.

"Expelliarmis!" Ron fired blindly over his shoulder and was on target enough to make two of the pursuers duck. They ran on, Harry throwing a few tripping jinxes with a quick glance. Finally they reached the rendezvous point at the tree where they were supposed to apparate and dodged behind it.

Harry had no time to react- as the red light hit him in the face, he dimly recalled hitting the ground and then...nothing.

When he awoke he was hanging from chains in a dank, reeking cell. The only light was from a torch which came through a barred window hole in the door.

"Ah you are awake," came an aristocratic, proud sounding voice from just outside the door. "I just wanted you to know, when you grovel at the Dark lord's feet and beg for your filthy, degenerate life, that I was the one that put you there."

"I will never grovel," Harry snarled at the voice. He tried to ignore the faint sense of almost relief he felt at being Voldie's prisoner and not at the Ministry.

"Oh you will," The voice stated smugly before the sound of footsteps signaled they had walked away. His head throbbed and Harry felt bile in his throat as he wondered if his friends had been killed instead of taken. After all he was probably the only one with a 'bring him alive' order on his head. He thought of something and heart racing reached up without any thought of surveillance to find the locket still on his throat. He exhaled, tried to relax and to think. An idea which had been fermenting in the back of his mind since this morning, if it had been this morning, was coalescing- forming itself into a sort of plan. A distasteful plan that made the bile rise again in his throat and tears of shame prick at his eyes, but a plan. He would make sure his friends were alive, and then if they were he would play his gambit.

He had no idea how much time had passed when a voice broke him out of his semi-conscious state.

"I suppose it's futile to ask you to join me again," Voldemort asked rhetorically.

"Are my friends alive?" asked Harry ignoring the question. Voldemort hesitated and Harry felt himself shaking in his chains slightly as the tension grew.

"Assuming they were?" he asked. Harry could sense amusement of all things filtering through the link and shivered. He swallowed and blinked a couple of times.

"Take me to them. Assuming they are ok we need to talk."

Voldemort hissed and Harry felt his rage through the link and in the pain enveloping his body. '_Oh right he can curse me now,_' thought Harry wryly as the Cruciatas lifted.

"Where were we?" asked Voldemort, playing the cordial host again.

"Look I want to talk, but not until I know what happened to the people I was with," said Harry blinking and telling himself it was the curse making his eyes water. "Otherwise torture me," he felt annoyance and resignation through the link.

"The werewolf we caught, the Weasley, and the mudblood are fine, though they won't be for long if you displease me. The other werewolves you were with ran," as far as Harry could tell from the link it was the truth, and if it wasn't, well he would find soon enough.

"I propose a truce," Harry grated his throat aching with his heart at the words.

"...," he was still speaking but no sound came, suddenly his shackles released and he fell to the ground on his hands and knees. He tried to stand quickly as the door opened and Voldemort walked in. He would not bow before that monster if he had any ability to fight it. A strange feeling, like having gravel rubbed on him, washed over his skin and he found himself immobile though he saw no spell or wand. Voldemort concealed and levitated him. He floated down the lushly decorated halls; disgusted with the gaudy wealth, everything wrong with pure-blood culture seemed distilled in the monster's lair. At the same time a niggling thought at the back of his mind said that it was odd; not Voldemort's style. 'Because you've studied his interior decorating taste,' the rational part of his mind countered. They arrived in a room very similar to the one Harry kept dreaming himself to but with several bookshelves lining the wall, a rather lush black and silver carpet and a tapestry between the shelves on either side.

Harry was left rather ignominiously on the floor, still immobile, as Voldemort strode to the chair. It was black hard wood, carved with snakes on the high back. Ruby-eyed dragon's heads were carved on the arms, it was a throne, though spartan and uncomfortable looking.

Voldemort watched him silently from the throne, blood red eyes mirroring the rubies in the carvings. It took Harry a moment to realize that he wasn't completely immobile, but could move his mouth. The rest of his body was still frozen, his knees and back ached from the contortion.

"You could let me stand," he said. Voldemort smirked slightly. He flicked his hand, and a slice tore open on Harry's shoulder.

"I could," was the reply. _'Right what was I thinking,_' thought Harry wryly. He was surprised to feel a slight longing for the dream realm. He tried to shake his head in disgust, and remembered he couldn't. What was wrong with him, thinking fondly of the sadist's 'company'.

"Neither of us wants the Fackelträgers in power. Neither of us has the numbers to have more than a miracle shot at chasing them out. I propose a temporary truce, bound with an unbreakable oath. We would each handle our own people and would do no harm to each other's…forces until we agree to end the arrangement, when the Fackelträgers are defeated I assume, or at a certain time. The last would keep us from extending the agreement for selfish purposes," Harry took a breath, and realized he was shaking, not from fear, but from nerves. That was his only play and there was a good chance Voldemort would see no reason to accept. There was a long pause, Voldemort sitting unmoving, an odd glint in his eyes. Muted feelings slid through the link, contempt, anger, annoyance.

"So you style yourself the next Dumbledore?" his cold laugh sent a shiver down Harry's spine. "Chess-master, peace-broker, friend of all, savior... fool. What makes you think for minute that your...twelve wizards and a dog, would be anything I'd want much less need? I took down the ministry in two years I will do the same here. You can serve me on bended knee or you can die in a cage," confidence, and a touch of pride flooded the link. Harry exhaled shakily he had one last move.

"What makes me think that?" he asked rhetorically, trying to layer as much bravado into the tone as he could body-bound on the floor. "You told me," he hesitated; a muted flicker of surprise touched the link. "Look at my neck." Voldemort stood and strode towards him, wand out sneering. He flicked his wand in a complicated, practiced motion. Harry felt like he'd been dipped in ice water, black particles like smoke rose from his chest. With another flick, Harry recognized it as the summoning spell, the locket floated up its chain breaking around his neck and flew to Voldemort's hand. The second it touch his hand dull pain brushed the link and Harry watched it fall to the ground.

"CRUCIO!" Harry screamed unable to even writhe until, blissfully, he passed out.

LVLVLVLVLVLVLVLVLV

Voldemort wrapped his hand in the sleeve of his robe, and picked up the Horcrux. He walked over, unlocked the door to his armory/artificary, entered and dropped it into a warded lock-box. Locking the box he returned to his study, replaced the wards on his armory, and retrieved the boy-who-really-needed-to-die. He stood in the hall outside his study, the boy levitating beside him; and touched his mark summoning Dolohov.

"Return this to the cell," he said, dropping the charm and letting the boy fall to the floor. Dolohov obeyed, Voldemort returnedto his study, and retrieved the Horcrux. He sat in his chair with the Horcrux in its box on the end table. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. He had never expected the boy to make an offer like that without copious torture. He needed to know what had changed, which meant finding out what the Horcrux had told him. Carefully, his left hand still throbbed from touching it, and the ghost of the Cruciatas through the link sent small jolts of nerve pain dancing down his body.

He opened the lock-box and levitated the Horcrux out, and set it on the floor several feet in front of him.

"Heshhha hesssey," he hissed in parseltounge, open now. The locket opened, the small projection appeared. Simultaneously he drew a quick breath, pain raked the inside of his chest like claws, and he felt his lungs tightened as though a metal band were wrapped around them. He exhaled, and for a fraction of a second panic threatened his composure before he drew another breath. Slow, measured breaths, there was no danger. He levitated the locket towards him so he could see the figure better. The pain increased, like a creature trying claw its way out of his chest, but breathing didn't get more difficult so he ignored it.

"What did you tell the boy?" He asked low and dangerous a voice to make any mortal shiver.

"I told him the history of the Fackelträgers as far as I knew it," replied the Horcrux, immediately recognizing his older form.

"And why, do tell, would you give information to our enemy?"

"I wasn't aware he was an enemy," the pain of admitting ignorance was poorly hidden.

"Yes you ignoramus, he's an enemy, as of six months ago he's THE enemy!" Voldemort snarled.

"You realize you're insulting yourself right?" asked the Horcrux smugly.

"Crucio! Argh!" Voldemort bit off his cry of pain, and stood jaw clenched. His breathing ragged with rage, a thought sliced through like an arrow. _"I can curse the boy without sharing the pain except through the link why,"_ he filed the thought away. The Horcrux was laughing, Voldemort exhaled.

"Why did you tell him?" he grated again, thanking every deity he didn't believe in that they were alone.

"I saw no reason not to. He presented himself as someone who was bonded to us, he wanted to do something I saw no reason not to help...he was right about one thing though enemy or not: The Fackelträgers are our fault and getting rid of them even now, much less once they're entrenched, will be nigh impossible," the Horcrux spoke calmly though Voldemort noted with disgust a hint of defeat in the tone. He raised his wand to curse, thought better of it and levitated the Horcrux back to its lock-box. With a snarl he threw it against the wall before rising to put the box away, he knew no damage would come to it.

He returned to the chair deep in thought. The new developments presented two problems, first was that the new information cast doubt on his hypothesis that the boy was a horcrux. The other problem was that as much as it galled him to acknowledge he―Horcrux him anyway―was correct, the Fackelträgers would be a problem. Yes, he could torture the boy into compliance or threaten his friends, however, that would likely take time and even then, would be less effective and more problematic. If the boy was actually on his side people he would never otherwise be able to ally with would flock to them. There would be no issue of sabotage from the boy or his people and he wouldn't be fighting a war on two fronts or rolling a dice against the Fackelträgers' far greater numbers.

There shouldn't be any real downside, at worst they would end up back where they started before, whoever it was behind the assassination―Nikovich most likely―had thrown that bag of sand in the potion. If he played right he might even be able to weaken the order while he was at it. Of course they'd be doing the same, but there was no one left on that side with a strategic cell in their likely non-existent brains. 'Yes this could work well,' he decided. Soon he would take the time to stash the Horcrux away, personally this time. For now, there was more research to be done. He headed for the library.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Harry woke up in his chains his entire body ached from the Cruciatas and from being locked into such an awkward position. Panicked he realized he couldn't feel the locket. Twitching in his chains he discovered that it was indeed gone. 'Well that failed,' he thought bitterly. He'd played his gambit, prostrated himself to his mortal enemy and for what. His eyes pricked and he hung his head in exhaustion and defeat. He tested the chains wondering on a mode of escape, but none seemed likely.

After an hour or so he found his mind wandering. Oddly enough he was thinking back to the dream room, the oddly comfortable, informative conversation he'd had with Voldemort. It seemed odd the differences between the slightly self-effacing, sane, even friendly locket, The relaxed, knowledgeable and driven version he'd spoken to in his dreams and the mad sadist he'd just presented himself to. All parts of the same creature. He thought of Voldemort shivering and ill, the symptoms mostly disappearing when he woke. _'No, not disappearing,'_ he corrected himself, _'concealed.'_

It occurred to him that since that was the only time he had seen the dark wizard look remotely relaxed, almost human it must have been a rather annoying intrusion for Harry to randomly show up there. He wondered vaguely amused why, with the exception of the first night, he always seem to arrive precisely when Voldemort presumably least wanted him.

Since the link had changed, with that one exception, he had shown up when Voldemort was sick and the dreams he had seen had largely been hellish nightmares. _'Well if anyone deserves it,'_ thought Harry. Then he remembered the ache in his leg that night which had gone away when he'd woken, the stiffness in his shoulder. He remembered finding something odd about the way Voldemort held his wand, left-handed. Today when Voldemort had used his wand it had been in his right. Indeed he couldn't remember it ever not being now that he thought about it. His shoulder had been stiff; if it was ghost pain from the link than Voldemort had been injured. Meaning that in every instance of the heightened link there had been something, a chink in the armor so to speak. Meaning that perhaps the reason for the change was simply that his guard was 'down' and with it his occlumency.

It was strange until this summer even with Dumbledore's lesson he'd thought of Voldemort as an entity, a force of nature. Yet he could still be ill or injured. He remembered the anger he'd felt when he'd made that jibe at Voldemort's mother, the dreams, the random sparks of jealousy. He remembered his intense want for companionship over the summer and wonder perversely if it been a ghost from the link. He shook his head, grateful for the ability to do so, no Voldemort was soulless or close enough. There was as much sense in trying find humanity there as in Fluffy. Anything that may have been there he'd chosen to tear out. He tried his chains again with a snarl. Not much to do but wait and hope for a chance to escape. He forced his parched throat to swallow and added water to the list of things to hope for.


	10. X

I am working on an original story for the foreseeable future. If anyone wants to do anything with this let me know. Otherwise I'll return to it eventually.


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